


Our Gentle Sin

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender Zayn, Character Death, Emotional Infidelity, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Heartbreak, Infidelity, Journalist Harry, M/M, POV Alternating, Physical Abuse, Prohibition, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, Smut, Sort Of, Speakeasies, Unrequited Love, Verbal Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-21 15:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 144,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14287767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As midnight rolls on, Harry wakes in a sweat of terror and alarm, and discovers the sheets next to him to be cold and baron of life. There's no Zayn to warm his bed tonight, no delicate touches to warm Harry's skin, none of his allaying whispers to lull Harry back into the comfort of sleep. And he fears, as a single tear slides down the side of his untouched cheek, that it will be that way from now on. With no Zayn, no music, and no light.(1927 - Zayn unwillingly falls in love with a journalist who works at The New York Times, and Harry slowly conceives the idea that he may have fallen for a marred bartender who he has no intention of hurting. And it feels like the world is against them both.)





	1. fate is a fickle thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dattumblrgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dattumblrgal/gifts).



> I don't quite understand how I managed to write and complete this fic in four and a half months, but I did and I hope anyone who reads it enjoys it, especially @dattumblrgal, who the fic is for - thank you so much for the prompt. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader, who worked just as hard as me, I'm sure, and for working relentlessly whenever things changed or took a different turn. 
> 
> To Courtney, Lex, Marsh, Leigh, Gwyn, and all my favourite zarry writers who kept me inspired and motivated to complete this story, I really don't think I would have completed this without your support. And thank you to those who run the fic exchange. Without you, this story wouldn't exist. 
> 
> A few things before you start: 
> 
> 1\. For the purpose of the story, I haven't used the real names of Zayn's family. I didn't want anyone to compare their actions to the actions of Zayn's fictional family in the story. I just wanted to make that clear.   
> 2\. This is a long body of work, so there may be a few minor spelling/grammar that I or my beta didn't notice, just small little things that slipped through the gaps or got messed up when re-formatting the work onto AO3.   
> 3\. The story is set in 1927 -- people were profound and emotionally blunt for the most part, and so to embody that, the story is supposed to seem subtly yet overly cheesy or unrealistic in certain times because of course the concept or scenario from 90 years ago isn't going to seem realistic in our modern day world. Nothing too strange, it's just all lovey-dovey and completely romantic.   
> 4\. I fuckin' love zarry.

 

 

It’s these most exciting nights of his life, and arguably the most miserable, that Harry finds himself sat at a stingy speakeasy in the middle of Manhattan, alone, and miles away from home.

He sways with the trumpets and hums over a tumbler of gin, sipping with each beat of the music—all the cares of the world on his shoulders, and none at all. The glass is cold between his hand, along with his ring that clangs against the glass. He slips it off with ease, hides it away in the corner of his pocket, and forgets about it, seemingly, easy enough.

It should concern him: how it all seems to be routine. How disposable his feelings can sometimes be. He doesn’t give himself time to think about it much, rolling his head back, gulping his gin, ignoring the twinge in his chest, and revelling in the burn that slides down his throat.

Harry sits half on the stool, his one foot still leant on the floor, as if, in some edgy way, it makes him seem like he wants to be there and not because he must. Because coercion; because life pushed him to be in this moment in time, perfectly. His trousers loose and tight all the same; his suspenders hang low by his thighs and no longer restrain the muscles of his shoulders as he bends and tenses under his dress shirt; even in the shadows his shoes, freshly polished, shine.

It feels so out of place; _he_ feels so out of place, as he balances the notebook on his knee and messily scribbles down the glimmers of impressions that he finds. Harry can’t put his finger on what particularly it is, but he knows there’s something, awry and odd. He looks so brand-new and clean-cut, a staggering opposition to the drunken bastards, who swallow their woes of war, around him. His eyes are slits, in daze, in half-drunken stupor, as he sips on his juice and looks around.

There’s not much that satisfies him, nothing much that appeases him. _This will be easy enough,_ he thinks. The only thing seemingly worth it here, past the crackling jukebox and dimmed down lights and cigarette fog of the place, is the bartender that keeps handing him drinks when he doesn’t ask for them.

Harry stares at him the next time he walks his way. He’s soundless, as so that if Harry wasn’t looking up at him he wouldn’t know the boy was there at all. He wonders for a moment if the boy really is there, because, God, he looks so out of place being here—like him—in a physical way Harry _can_ put his finger on. With the man’s tempestuous eyes that flicker back and forth towards Harry, like he wants to see but can’t, shouldn’t, the lineations of his face changing when he moves through different light.

For a moment Harry zones out. When he returns the boy is staring at him, almost expectantly. His arms are leaned against the bar, shoulders high, rag swept over his right. His lips start to move, but Harry doesn’t hear.

“What?” Harry goes to drink but finds his glass empty.

“Another drink?” the boy asks.

Harry pushes his glass forward and watches—mostly because he has nothing better to do and he’s finding the boy’s face frown-worthingly attractive—as another drink is poured. A mixture of gin and seltzer and lime; four of which are already sat in his stomach, warming him in ways a touch can’t.

He slides the glass along the bar; practised, expertly, not spilling a drop.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Harry says to him.

“Most people don’t see me at all,” he responds with a glimmer of a smile. It’s lost underneath the lights in a second. “You don’t seem familiar, either.”

“That’ll be because it’s my first time here,” Harry explains.

He takes a sip of his bootleg juice. It tastes sweeter, burns a little better, as he swallows this time. When he notices the boy’s gaze hasn’t left his, his spine shudders and he lifts the glass to cover his eyes, so the contact will be broken. When he looks back, the man is wiping the water off some tumblers and placing them back on the rack behind him.

“I have to ask, what brought you here? To this establishment, of all the others.”

Harry shrugs, pondering for a moment, and says: “Got a good recommendation from a, uh… a close friend. Says it’s one of the best speakeasies around.”

“A close friend, huh?” A subtle smirk lingers on his face, and he scoffs. “All the speakeasies in the city and this is one of the best? There must be ten dozen speakeasies around here. A man who’s seen them all ain’t anything short of a drunk.”

“My friends like their juice, what can I say? So do I,” Harry says with a nonchalance about him.

The boy—this man, he should say: there’s far too much of an adorning beard following those sharp cheeks of his, too much maturity in his frame, too much darkness under his eyes to be anything less than—looks to him with the warmest shade of golden haze.

It staggers Harry’s breath, has him twitching in a ghost of something he’s found, has him feeling that the bottom of his glass is much easier to look at in this moment. He looks away when he feels the tint in his cheeks and blames it on the gin finally getting to him. Blames the gin for the glow of warmth diffusing in his bloodstream. Blames the gin for every-fucking-thing.

Harry doesn’t like the warm. He doesn’t do warm. He does bitter wind, and biting rain, and muddied boots on battlefield’s, where the rush of life surges through him like an inferno. Like the flaming heat of gin; the only fire he’s fond of.

He should walk away now, before things become difficult.

“A smile suits you better,” he hears through his unwitting daze.

A small grin is whispering back at him, past tongue-trodden teeth and rhubarb lips. Harry can’t help but smile back at that, though it’s only faint.

“I didn’t get your name,” Harry says.

“I didn’t get yours,” he retaliates.

Harry’s brows quirk, his smile turning snide. “Harry.”

“Harry.” He hums, and his eyes flicker over Harry’s countenance, ponderous and amused. “You look like a Harry. Suits the accent, too.”

“Suits the accent.” Harry scoffs. “What does that mean?”

“It means, it suits the accent. You know, the whole British thing. It sounds un-American rolling off the tongue.”

“Have you ever been?” Harry asks, swigging his drink.

“To England?” Harry nods. “No. No, never. Don’t think I would now, anyway. You know, because of the war.”

“Right.” Harry’s glass reaches to achieve the edge of his lips, but it doesn’t quite make it before he drifts away.

There’s a pang in his chest, of melancholy, of loss, as he thinks of home. It looks different to what Harry remembers it to be, he’s sure, with nostalgia trickling in to tint everything rosy. The sun never shined enough to warm you, but as Harry sits here now—under a roof where everyone seems to have the same ideas, the same drinks in their hands, the same tampered spirits—it’s like he can almost feel the touch of the sun on his lashes, coating his calloused face. 

He looks down, jots one last line of words onto the page of his notebook, and slips it back into the safety of his pocket. 

“Did I say something?”

Harry returns to the curiously worried expression of the man before him. He leans forward slightly, close enough that Harry can almost feel the warmth of his body whispering against his.

Reassuringly, Harry shakes his head. “Just remembering. Remembering home, before the war.”

“You were in the war?”

“Wasn’t everyone?” Harry asks, scoffing, as if it’s obvious, as if he should know. He drains his glass of juice and slams it harder than he should down on the bar.

“Yeah… yeah,” the man mumbles. His eyes look down, and picks at a scab covering one of his reddened knuckles.

Harry notices, hardens his gaze, but says nothing. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

He gives Harry a flattering smile, a soft smile that’s so out of place of his character, of the atmosphere around them. But still, as the side of Harry’s face perks—his mouth, his cheek, his brow, as if being pulled by string—and their eyes never leave one another’s, and the longer Harry looks the deeper the man’s smile grows, he gets no answer.

“No name, then.”

“If you’re going to tell the bulls’, I don’t. I don’t have one,” he says.

“And why would I do that?”

He shrugs. “Could be undercover.”

“Have you had many of those? Undercovers?” Harry asks. There’s a curiosity to his voice; a trick twist of a tease, a gesture.

“A few. They never get out,” he tells.

Harry senses the warning in his tone, hidden past the blasé configuration of his face. He swallows the lump in his throat.

“If you’re not a bull, you don’t got nothing to worry about. You got nothing to worry about now, have you?”

 _Possibly_. Harry holds his hands up. “Can’t say I have. So, are you going to crack?”

He hesitates for a moment, his fingers coming down in a rhythmic beat against the bar. He bites his lip; Harry stares without shame. Then, he opens his mouth, and Harry almost misses it as he speaks quietly, gently: “Zayn.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats.

He nods. “Zayn.”

“That’s a very pretty name, Zayn. It suits you,” he says, before jokingly adding, “Suits the accent. It’s quite an uncommon name.”

“It’s foreign, I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says.

Harry shakes his head. “I used to study names, I’m quite familiar with them. Some foreign, some familiar.”

Harry’s mind wanders to the bleakness of the sky, the patters of rain that fell like tears on the cold, grey starkness of the tomb stones, and the lost names engraved into the surface. The dates below. The days behind…

There it is again: memory. Haunted, haunting memory. It sweeps in like a draft and chills Harry, makes the layer underneath his skin shiver with cold remembrance.

Why does he keep doing this? It’s the fucking gin. Why does he drink it?

Harry coughs, and sips his drink as an excuse to look away.

“Do you get them?” Harry asks when his eyes wander the tavern and look back to Zayn, who’s still watching him with sincere eyes. “The nightmares.”

“Oh,” Zayn says. He looks taken aback for a moment, hesitant, a hand subconsciously raising to scratch the back of his neck. “I—no, not really, no.”

Harry hums. “Lucky buggar. I’d give my left arm to sleep normally again, even just for one night.” He pauses for a while, rapping his fingers against his glass, like he always does when there’s thoughts in his mind he wants to forget.

“Have you got anything stronger? I want something stronger.” I don’t want to remember.

Zayn puts a fresh, clear glass in front of him. No effervescence, no lime. Just pure, numbing amnesiac. Harry would think it was water if he doesn’t already see the cut faucet from where he’s sitting across the bar. He’ll have to remember that one.

“Pure gin,” Zayn says. “You wanted something stronger, right?”

Harry takes the first sip and winces. There’s a singe in the drink as he swallows, one that wasn’t there before, one that makes his throat numb. He takes another sip.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

Then, he’s off again—Zayn—gone before Harry can look up from his drink, and only returns to refill it.

It’s 2am, 3am, 4–Harry’s words have become pathetic excuses of mumbles, and he’s wobbling on his barstool. He can’t remember the amount of alcohol he’s consumed, but his tongue is burnt from the bitterness and his whole body feels numb, and he knows it really shouldn’t have been this much. The lights of the club seem to dance for him, twist, smile, blur his eyes. And it’s only when he reaches out for them, in an intoxicated flick of his wrist, does he finally topple off the barstool he’s been balancing with two legs on for the past hour.

A pair of arms reach for his shirt and pull him back before he hits the floor.

“I think you’re a little wasted,” a familiar voice says from behind him. “You need some fresh air.”

He turns Harry around in his arms, slinging most of Harry’s weight over himself. The air around him changes: it’s fresh and biting his cheeks. It’s only when he feels the gentle drops of autumn rain on his face does he realise he’s outside.

Harry looks beside him and begins to smile.

“Hey,” he slurs. “Look at you, being my hero. You know, I… I used to carry people out of battle like this.”

He rests Harry down on the wall outside, ignoring his comment. “Do you remember my name? Do you even remember your own name?”

“Harry.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“Zar—” Hiccup, burp “—Zard.”

“No, Harry, it’s Zayn,” he reiterates.

“Zame.”

“I guess that’s close enough.” Zayn huffs. “Do you have any way of getting home? It’s cold out here.”

“Why are you—why are you so nice?” Harry asks. Burp, hiccup. “Most bartenders are arseholes. They just—” hiccup “—just let you fall asleep on the…” He points down, gesturing to the floor. “This cold, wet fucking thing.”

“I’m not a real bartender,” Zayn says. His arms are crossed, rubbing his skin covered in goose bumps. Though his eyes travel down the street, his eyes never wander away from Harry for too long.

Harry notices, and smirks. “Are you… are you… do you think I’m pretty?”

“What?” Zayn’s brows scrunch up.

“I think—” Harry falls over, but Zayn catches him again. Their faces fall inches apart, and their eyes lock “—I think you’re pretty.”

They stay like that for a moment, just staring, Harry drunkenly, Zayn almost warily, into each other’s eyes. Then, Harry begins to fall again, closer to Zayn’s face, his lips, his warm breath, and he thinks this time, in his alleviating drunkenness, it’s intentional.

Zayn creates distance between them, moving away just before their skin meets. And Harry, more surprised than either of them, stumbles back in disoriented confusion, because he almost just kissed a stranger.

His pocket becomes heavy.

 _This is strange,_ he thinks. _Did I just call him pretty?_

Zayn still balances Harry in his hands. “Do you have a way to get home? Anywhere to stay, Harry?”

“Room 142,” Harry slurs.

“Here? You have a room here?” Harry nods. “Okay, come on. You need to sleep, I think. The gin is definitely getting to you.”

The air is too warm on Harry’s skin as they re-enter the hotel, the lights too bright, the music too loud, though it plays quieter than the scuffling of their feet on the Persian carpet. It stifles him, makes him wince his eyes and squeeze them shut. He falls in and out of sleep that way, waking up for a moment when he feels Zayn rummaging around in his pocket to find the key card to his room, and his mind going blank when he hits the bed. He feels the warmth of Zayn’s coat be replaced with a blanket, and footsteps trailing towards the door.

“Zayn,” Harry mumbles, and the footsteps stop in their place. “Zayn… Stay, please…”

Then, his mind goes blank.

He wakes up not long after, sweating, shaking, sitting up with a shout. Gunshots, fire, screams, but the room is silent. The room is so silent. A hand lies on his own moments later. He flinches away.

“Harry, it’s okay, it’s me,” Zayn says.

He stayed, Harry thinks. He sighs in relief, and, without really thinking about it, he acts as if he’s back home. He slips his shoes off and pulls Zayn onto the bed to lie next to him, holding his hand tightly. He can see the confusion in Zayn’s eyes, but neither of them speaks a word—something Harry is grateful for.

His mind is wide awake, more sober and alert, reeling with fresh memories. The clock reads 5AM as he looks over to the other side of the room. Harry throws the blanket over Zayn’s body and edges him in closer, so he can feel some warmth. Their hands are still connected, Harry gripping tightly with white knuckles—if he’s squeezing too hard Zayn doesn’t complain. He just goes along with it, like it’s normal for him. It’s not for Harry, though. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this close to a man—not like this.

“You weren’t asleep for long,” Zayn says in a hushed tone.

“I know.” Harry looks into his eyes, eyes that are already staring back at him. He notices, under the dim light of the hotel room, the green swirl of hue that dances in Zayn’s hazel eyes. It captivates him… reminds him.

“You have a habit of avoiding my questions. You didn’t answer… you didn’t answer my question,” Harry says.

“What question?”

“Do you—do you think I’m pretty?” he asks.

For a brief time, Zayn looks away, and he turns back to Harry with reddened cheeks. He shrugs. “You’re not so bad. I’ve seen prettier sissies on the corner of Ellen’s, but you’re pretty, too.”

“Sissy?” Harry asks, frowning. “I’m not a sissy.”

“You’re not? Then why are you staring at me like you are?” Zayn asks.

“I’m staring at you because I think you’re pretty,” Harry says. Hiccup.

“I think you’re still drunk, it’s shrouding your judgment.” Zayn wiggles his fingers between Harry’s, taking his thumb to stroke his hand.

“I’m not drunk, not anymore. Just before drunk, maybe,” Harry defends. “And even if I was, you aren’t. And you’re here.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” Zayn laughs, and bites his lip. Harry’s eyes zoom down.

“Why are you still here?”

“You asked me to stay, Harry.”

“Is there any other reason?” he inquires.

Zayn’s brows strike up, surprised. It’s quiet, like he’s scrambling for an answer, and then he shrugs his shoulders, as if he doesn’t want to say anything but he knows he must.

“I guess, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t want anything bad happening to you. You seem like a nice guy.”

“A nice guy.” Harry hums. Far off the mark. He still feels the buzz of alcohol riddling his system. Drink always did make him more courageous. “Nice as in… pretty?”

Zayn laughs. Crinkled eyes, sweet smile. “Nice as in, whatever you want it to be.”

Drink always makes him more courageous.

“Am I nice enough to kiss?” Harry asks, daringly. It’s a bold move, a leap, one that would make him bite his lip in embarrassment, if Zayn didn’t nod back to him. “Am I nice enough to… to take to bed?”

Harry doesn’t expect an answer, and he doesn’t get one. But he can already see it—the conclusion—that unspoken thing tingling in his fingertips.

It’s wrong, Harry knows that. He was at work, and now somehow he’s in bed with another man, who’s caressing his hand and comforting him out of the vulgar aftertaste of late night terror. This isn’t what he came for, this isn’t what he came to do.

On the horizon, the sun begins to break through the clouds.

Without thinking, pushing the thought of home out of his mind, discarding the risk he’s jumping on like a one-hundred-dollar bill, Harry leans in close, close enough so their noses touch and he ghosts his lips over Zayn’s.

But Zayn catches him at the last second and pulls away with a gasp. He bites his lip—Harry revels in it. And then, as quickly as he’d let Harry lean in again, as Harry quietens the proximity between them without Zayn noticing, he pushes away.

“Harry,” Zayn says through a wispy breath. He stops the movement of Harry’s hand on his chest. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” he denies. “I’m not drunk, I promise you.”

“You are. You don’t know what you want,” Zayn says.

“I do,” Harry replies, adamant.

Harry sees Zayn resolve weaken, only for a moment. He takes the chance of moving back in, an attempt at attaching their lips. They stay there for a moment, but Zayn shies away again, just as Harry’s tongue reaches out to flicker against his.

“Harry, don’t,” Zayn warns, softly. “You need to sleep. You’re out of your mind.”

Harry mumbles a ‘no’, staring at Zayn’s swollen lips from where he’s bitten too hard. At the proclamation, he feels the heaviness of sleep in his eyes, the pound of too much gin in his head. His eyes flicker in lassitude.

“I’m not,” Harry protests. He reaches for Zayn’s cheek, but Zayn rests it down on the bed.

Zayn pushes him back down to the covers. “You look like a zombie.”

“You said I looked pretty,” Harry mumbles, his eyes drifting closed. The softness of the quilt seems to do him no favours in staying awake, despite the throbbing of his thighs and the need to reach out and touch Zayn. He thinks he feels a kiss like feathers on his forehead, and the coldness sweeping in from being alone again.

In his sleep, Harry sighs.

A shrill of the telephone wakes him, not long after the sun has permeated the room. His first instinct is to reach for Zayn, to pull him closer. But as he shifts his hand through the bed, the only thing he feels is the lonely, untouched sheets. He sits up, looking around for another sign of life, but the room is baron.

Harry tries to ignore the pinch of disappointment in his chest. He reaches for the phone sitting on the bedside table that still rings.

“What?” he grumbles.

“Mr. Styles. There’s a man for you, a Mr. Boss, that keeps ringing the line. He told me to tell you to…” There’s ruffling, like paper, on the other line. “He told me to tell you to ‘get your butt into work before he gives Hoyden your seat at the desk’.”

Harry sits up, twisting his palm over his face and rubbing his eyes. He yawns, and thanks the receptionist, and doesn’t stop to think for a moment about how his blazer and tie he took off last night are laid out perfectly on the chair in the corner of the room so they don’t crease.

 

 

• • II • •

 

 

The usual balance of silence envelops the drunks that still lay at the tables asleep, spilt booze below their boots and sticking to the floor. Zayn collects the dead soldiers lying around, as the whispers of thickening sobriety begin to creep down the staircase with the blowing wind from outside.

There’s only one pair of eyes still open, who seem to have slinked from the darkened corner and come to sit at the bar, with a half empty glass of whiskey and a cigarette seeping from his mouth.

“I thought Clane would have shoved you off before now,” he says, sipping his drink. He gives Zayn an odd look from the corner of his eye, like he knows, like he can see through walls. “Not up to your sodomitical antics again, are you?”

“Even if I was, what business is it of yours?” Zayn asks, his tone monotonous and uninterested. He slips back behind the bar and throws all the empty bottles lying on the side, under the bar.

“You’re going to get caught one day, Zayn. It won’t end pretty.”

“Then when that day comes, James, you can tell me you told me so,” Zayn retaliates. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. I had some business to attend to.”

“Business that kept you up all night and drinking at 7am.” He hums.

“Tricky business. Flexible business—” he swigs from the glass with a distaste that isn’t caused by the harsh bite of his drink, Zayn can tell. “Fucking complicated business.”

“Wound around someone’s fingers too tight, James?” Zayn asks. In the silence, Zayn has his answer. “I know you too well.”

James looks up at him with annoyed eyes pouring over the rim of his glass. “Oh, you do, do you? Do you really?”

“I’ve known you long enough to know that your business is some pretty flapper on the other side of town that you hope your wife will never find out about,” Zayn says. “When are you going to respect your wife?”

“When you realise it’s none of your fucking business what I do with my time,” he says. “Be a good fella and pour me another drink.”

“You’ll never learn, will you?”

“Look in a goddamn mirror, Malik.”

As Zayn pours James a drink, a distinctive presence of scuffed shoes against the carpeted ground and the grumble of liquor breath disrupts the peace of the early morning bar like a bomb. There’s a quiet hum under his tongue that creeps along Zayn’s skin, makes his heart skip a beat, makes him want to lunge into the comfort of the dark.

Without a word, and only a singular glance to his father, Zayn slinks back into the shadows.

 

 

• • III • •

 

 

The instant Harry walks into work, a pressure falls on his shoulders like bricks. Incessant eyes look on to him: they have since the day he got here. With their ears piquing at the sound of his foreign tongue, faded whispers of the limey strutting around the office.

He does his best to ignore the predictable, provocative gaze of the receptionist as he passes by, to ignore every gaze that falls on him from the elevator to his desk. A small stack of papers lie waiting for him, along with a lamp, his tattered notebook, and plaque with his name on it. He sets his work case to the side and sits down.

But his peace doesn’t start there. As soon as his backside hits the chair, he feels a scrap of balled paper hit the side of his head.

“Limey,” Jack says, sitting two desks down from him, “Boss wants you.”

He stands to his feet, strutting. “You couldn’t have come over and told me that yourself?”

“And waste those five precious steps? ‘Course not. I’m a busy guy, Limey.”

“Stop calling me that,” he grumbles.

“Sure thing, Limey.”

Harry doesn’t bother knocking on Boss’ door and walks straight in. He stands still, feet to stone, as he enters and sees who’s on the other side of the office. With a meagre glance, Harry’s pulse is screaming. He does his best to avoid looking at him altogether.

“Harry,” his boss says, “come sit down.”

“No, I’m alright standing up, sir.”

“Baloney, Harry. Come, take a seat next to Hoyden, I’ll get straight to the point,” he orders this time.

Harry can do nothing but oblige. He paces over to the seat abreast to Hoyden and sits down. His knuckles are whitened and, as Harry glances over in his direction, his jaw is tighter than a lock, eyes focused forward.

Harry sighs. If his day wasn’t off to a good start before, it sure isn’t now.

“We were just talking about the party. You know, the Christmas party the company organises every year,” Boss says. “We try and invite new investors to parties, so they can help us grow as a company. But this year it’s important. I have plans to expand the company to more states around the country, so we aren’t just exclusive to New York. In order to do that we need investors, rich investors, and well, we won’t get them here without something to entice them.” A moments silence, as if he’s expected to reply, but he doesn’t understand.

“Something to, perhaps, sway their conscience,” Hoyden reiterates in a grumble.

 _Oh_. “You want to get them bent.”

“Yes, Harry. Exactly.”

“What has that got to do with me?”

“There’s an establishment down on 52nd street, underneath the Grand Bourdoir. Penny Black, I believe. I’ve heard they’ll be our best bet in the city to import liquor; disclosed, trustworthy. I was hoping to have your second opinion.”

Harry furrows his brows, confused at the request. _He asked me to go there last night. He already knows its reputation, why is he asking me?_

From his peripheral, Harry notices Hoyden’s eyes flicker towards him and back to the front in quick succession. Then, it clicks: Hoyden doesn’t know, and Boss is flaunting their little secret like it’s a virgin he can’t touch.

Harry suppresses a smirk.

“I would absolutely recommend the establishment, sir,” Harry says.

Hoyden scoffs beside him.

“Perfect. I’ll leave it up to you to arrange the date with the owner, who I’m sure you’re accommodated with,” he says.

The thought of the dimmed bar, the musky scent, and liquor daze—those circular, golden lights that talk, that seem to see through him, that makes his heart accelerate in a way he knows it shouldn’t, in a way he’s almost unsure of, at the thought of their first and last encounter.

He calms the elation tingling in his fingertips and nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You both can leave.” Mr. Boss gestures to the door.

“I don’t know what you’re doing with Zayn,” Hoyden says in a hushed tone, as the office door shuts behind them, his hand finding its way around Harry’s arm, “but stay the fuck away from him.”

“What?” Harry asks, confused.

“I saw you last night, at the speakeasy, saw you go off with him. Don’t be roping him into anything bad, anything stupid. He has a habit of doing that.”

Harry snatches his arm of out of his grip. “I’ll do whatever I want, Hoyden. Don’t be telling me what to do with my business. Mind your fucking own.”

“I’m telling you, if you do anything to him I’ll swing at you, and I won’t miss.” James’ tone is unwavering, and so is the steady threat in his voice, Harry knows.

“Why, what’s Zayn to you, why do you care?” Harry asks.

“He’s nothing. He’s nothing to me. But I know him, and I don’t know what you’re up to but I ain’t got a good feeling about it. So, stay away from him.”

Harry leans in to him, ignoring the pairs of eyes that are staring at them from the office. He’s so close that he can still smell the liquor on Hoyden’s breath. “How about you stay on your side of the line, and I’ll stay on mine. Go home to your wife, James. She’s still waiting up for you.”

Though Harry sees he wants to say something, James keeps his mouth shut. Harry looks him up and down, scoffing, and walks away. He doesn’t bother going back to his desk and instead makes a line to the elevator. There’s a twitch in his palm, a switch of something inside him that makes it impossible for him to stand still.

As the door to the elevator closes, he sees Hoyden storm back to his desk, slamming his fists down onto the surface, and it echoes through the room.

In Harry’s pocket the ring sets alight. He slips it on quick, as if it’s burning a hole through the fine pattern of his suit, and tries to forget about how heavy it sits on his finger.

 

 

• • IV • •

 

 

When the first snow falls, Zayn sees him again. Wandering down the stairway, pushing his way through the busy floor, and stumbling to the bar. His hair is longer, eyes a little darker. He doesn’t see Zayn standing behind the bar, but Zayn guesses that’s because he doesn’t care enough to see him.

“A Gin Rickey?” Zayn calls to him.

Harry’s eyes shoot up to him, brows high and stretched with his attention. Then, with that deep crinkling smile, a gleam of recognition glistening under the dim lights, he shakes his head. “A whiskey.”

“What brings you back here?” Zayn asks.

Harry doesn’t respond straight away. He looks around,familiarising, with a seam of words across his lips he’s unsure whether he wants to say, Zayn sees, as they’re pierced thin. He shrugs and smiles at him. “Just visiting.”

“Just visiting,” Zayn mumbles, more to himself than anything.

In the dim lit bar, with jazz music swinging and the scent of sweat in the air, for a moment Harry’s smirk falters. Zayn just about catches it, through the smoke coming from the cigarette hanging between his lips, clouding his vision. But he sees it. Something brazen warms Zayn’s ego, a slight twitch that he shouldn’t feel.

“I’m a jazz journalist,” Harry says.

“Oh? Good for you.”

“I want to write about the speakeasy,” he confesses after a beat.

“This speakeasy?” Zayn asks, his voice raising as the sound in the bar does, too. Harry nods. He shows his back for a moment to make Harry’s drink, and turns around to him to slide it over the bar. “Why do you wanna write about this place?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s an interesting place to be. God knows what can happen in this place, what you’ll find, of sorts. Drunken bastards, undercover bulls’, doe-eyed boys…”

Zayn ignores the twinge of heat he feels on his skin, hiding his surprise behind the practise of a subtle smirk. He takes a drag of his cigarette. “Over-dressed, arrogant big-timers, coming in here to flirt with doe-eyed men.”

Harry’s brows raise, and he looks around the room, feigning confusion. “Flirting. Who’s flirting?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and leans against the bar, his hand holding his cigarette to the side. Their eyes face one another. “In the very little time I’ve known you, you’ve made it clear that you’re always a man with a motive.”

“Is that so? Well, you know me better than most, then.”

“What do you want, Harry?”

He sees the playfulness in Harry’s eyes, hidden by his tumbler as he raises it to take a swig. His lips are coated and shiny and a magnet for Zayn’s eyes. It’s Harry’s voice that pulls him back in to focus.

“I told you, I want to write about this place.”

Zayn nods, slowly, unbelieving. “Right. Well, I’ll leave you alone to write in peace.”

“Hey, hey,” Harry calls as Zayn begins to walk away. He doesn’t move back to face Harry, but he turns around in his place. “I lied. Well, no, I didn’t lie, I do want to write about the speakeasy, but…”

“But…” Zayn repeats. He leads his feet to stand in front of Harry, waiting for him, in curiosity, to continue speaking.

“My boss, he got this idea,” Harry begins. He takes the Strike out of Zayn’s hand and takes it between his lips; Zayn doesn’t protest. “We need a speakeasy that will supply alcohol to an event for our company. A Christmas party we hold every year.”

“And you want that to be our speakeasy,” Zayn assumes.

Confusion passes over Harry’s countenance. “Our speakeasy? This isn’t yours?”

“It’s my father’s place. But I take the liberty of calling it my own, too, seeming as I work every day with little pay,” he grumbles. The voice of his father resonates in his mind. A roof over your head is enough payment. He lets out a scoff. “If you want to do business, it’ll be with Clane. Do you want to see him?”

“Why do you think I came here?”

“He’s around the back, come through.” Zayn ushers Harry to follow him.

He leads them out of the bar, through a hallway, and into room hidden behind a corner. Inside, a man lies sprawled out on a sofa, a half empty bottle swinging from his fingertips. The other dead soldiers sit in a pile beside him.

This face, with reddened, swollen eyes, and an unmistakable scar lying across his cheek, is a face Zayn thinks he will always remember. A face he wishes he could forget. Zayn tries to hide the quickening of his breath by turning the way of the radio that’s playing soft music in the corner of the room, his back to Harry.

“Father,” Zayn says. His tone is quiet, hesitant—he stands a distance away, and worries about getting any closer. When his father doesn’t respond, Zayn takes a timid sigh into his chest, holds it, and kicks his leg gently. “Father.”

The man grumbles as he wakes. His eyes peel open, just far enough to see the image of his son standing above him. He rests an arm over his eyes, squinting. “What do you want?”

“There’s a man here to see you, sir.”

“Mr. Clane,” Harry introduces himself. “I work as a journalist for the New York Times. My boss was hoping that you’d consider supplying us with alcohol for an event we’re holding a few weeks from now.” Harry’s voice is confident, strong—the opposite of how Zayn feels as he stands in the corner, hoping his father is drunk enough to take him as he wants to be: invisible.

There’s silence for a moment—to Zayn it feels like forever—before Clane opens his mouth to speak. “What’s in it for me?”

“Well, you’d be paid for your services, of course,” Harry says.

“How much?”

“Twenty dollars, for the night,” Harry says.

Zayn’s eyes open wider, and he notices the ears of his father perking, almost like a dog promised a bone. He sits up slightly and glances over his shoulder.

“Make it thirty,” he says.

“Twenty is a very respectable offer—”

“Thirty or nothing.”

Harry’s fists tighten at his side. Zayn notices the aggravation seeping into the frown lines on his forehead.

“Twenty-five,” Harry says.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-five, sir, or I walk away and find someone else who will take the twenty, unhesitatingly. Let me remind you, it takes establishments like these a whole week to sometimes make the same amount you’ll be making in an evening,” Harry bargains.

He’s good at this, Zayn thinks, handling his father. It gives him a sense of safety that is usually lost.

“Fine. Twenty-five dollars,” Clane agrees. “I ain’t gonna shake your hand or some baloney, but I expect the money—” He turns around to look at Harry for the first time “—on the night, cash. I want cash. And I don’t want no double crosses. You only get my trust once.”

“Once is all we need,” Harry says. He glances at Zayn—and Zayn expects to see some sort of sympathy, anger, anything… he sees nothing. Only a calm sea in Harry’s eyes, but the waves still crash over him. “How would you like to sort out the details?”

“On a piece of paper, give it to Zayn.” Clane lies back down on the sofa, covering his eyes again. “Now, get the fuck out.”

Zayn, who has been stood in the corner the whole time, as quiet as a mouse, begins to edge his way from the room. But the unnerving sound of his father’s whispers stops his feet in their tracks.

“You can leave, Harry,” Zayn says, voice low.

Harry’s brows contort, face scrunching—Zayn offers him a reassuring nod—and he leaves the room. Falteringly, he turns back around to face his father. He doesn’t look at Zayn, his eyes still covered from the augmented light, but Zayn feels uneasy as if he were.

“Why did you let him in here?” he asks. “Why did you put me in that predicament?”

“He asked to speak to you, father. I didn’t have a reason to turn him away. It’s good business...”

“You know what time this is,” Clane says, his voice eerily quiet. It sends bumps up Zayn’s arms, a lump in his throat. “What time is it?”

He’s reminded of the calm before a storm, the first drops of gentle rain before a flood—the shallow steps proceeding towards him before bruises became scars on his skin as a child. Zayn lowers his head to the ground.

“It’s your time, Father,” Zayn says.

“Get out. Don’t disturb me.”

Zayn doesn’t have to be told twice: he practically bolts from the room. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to regather his thoughts and push those out he doesn’t want to remember—the ones he wishes he could pull from his head and screw into a bottle and sink to the bottom of the ocean. He wishes he could pluck them from his mind and wash them from his hands, like magic, like a spell, like witchcraft. He wishes Mr. Harry Houdini was right; he wishes magic was real.

A hand on his shoulder jolts his eyes open and makes him flinch away, the pressure on his arm feeling like fire, like he’s burning.

“Hey,” Harry says, “it’s just me.”

A sigh.

“Are you alright, Zayn?”

“I’m fine,” he assures.

“Are you sure?”

Zayn looks to Harry, standing straight, so he’s closer to his eyes, his face, his lips. He stares down at them, in their nourished state, glossy like he’s just licked them, watching as they form the faintest smile that shines in his eyes. Zayn sees the misplaced care hanging low in Harry’s countenance. It confuses him, warms him. If it isn’t for the fear accelerating his heart, he would smile.

And, in a moment of sheer spontaneity, in a moment of not caring who sees, he slithers his hand around the back of Harry’s head and pulls their lips together.

Oh, how sweet they taste, Zayn thinks, suckling on his bottom lip. Like whiskey and lemon and mint. Zayn swallows every one of Harry’s moans like they’re the air that keeps him going.

“You’re right,” Harry says, gasping, struggling to get a word in through Zayn’s frantic kisses. “I didn’t just come back for Clane, or for the speakeasy.”

Zayn pauses, looking up to him with wide, aroused eyes.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened, or what should have happened.” Harry tucks Zayn’s long hair behind his ear as it falls in front of his face. “Your touches are so soft. So soft.”

Zayn thinks his heart is going to burst from how fast it’s beating. He wonders if this is right, if it’s the thought of Harry wanting him that makes his cock rise, or the fact he knows he’s doing something so mischievous and hasty, an affair he knows his father would disapprove of without word, with just a menacing glance.

He wonders if Harry has a pretty woman waiting for him at home, like James. If she’s cooked him his favourite meal and sits at their table in his favourite dress, waiting to kiss him as he comes in through the door.

The thoughts race through his mind as he jumps for Harry’s lips again, to taste the sweetness he’s craving. His hands envelop Zayn’s face and pull him impossibly closer. He pushes them to the closest wall, so their bodies can press against one another. Their tongues collide, hips knock, the sultry sound of their sloppy kisses and desperate moans camouflaged by the music and the cheer behind them.

He knows it’s such a risk to be doing this with Harry. He feels it in his bones—the buzz, shooting straight down to the marrow and igniting. Fuck, it’s such a risk. Especially since his father is in the room next to them. God knows what Zayn will do if they’re caught now. But he can’t help himself. His hands are no longer his own as they stroke Harry’s body, feeling every part of him. The idea, the slick, taboo idea of kissing Harry anywhere, everywhere, but his mouth tastes delectable.

A smash of broken bottles from the bar pulls Zayn’s eyes open. The world around him spins for a moment as he realises his back is against the wall, his eyes staring straight at the cracked cement of the floor—nowhere near Harry. No, Harry stands over him, still, with his hand on Zayn’s shoulder, calling his name.

“Zayn,” he says, “hey, maybe you should sit down.”

Zayn glances up at him. Descended brows, sharp features, tightened with stress and a glimmer of concern. His clothes hold no wrinkles, no scrunches of tightened fists; hair still perfectly styled and pristine; and his lips… they aren’t cherry, they aren’t plum. They’re glossed and pink, and untouched, and kissably un-kissed.

He squints his eyes closed and open again to see if anything will change, like last time. But it doesn’t. The world is still calm, and the air is still lacking that fuzz of static that was there moments ago, in his mind. His body feels dull and weak and limp all of a sudden.

_What the fuck is he doing?_

“No, no I’m okay. I don’t need to sit down.” Zayn straightens his back to stand up. The weight of Harry’s palm still sits on his shoulder.

“What just happened?” Harry asks.

I’m thinking the same thing. “Nothing.”

“You just… I don’t know, it’s like you just shut down,” Harry says.

Zayn places a hand over his heart, willing it to slow down. “Nothing, I just—That happens sometimes. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“It seems like it is,” Harry responds.

Zayn scoffs. “It’s been happening since I was a child. If it was something to truly worry about, I’d be dead,” Zayn jokes sombrely. But there’s no smile on his face; no smile on Harry’s face, either. “A drink, perhaps.”

Harry’s hand finally falls from Zayn’s shoulder, though the weight of his touch still lingers there, still leaves chills down his arm. Then suddenly, the width of the bar is between them, and it feels strange; being so close and now being so far. _It’s funny how life works_ , Zayn thinks.

The speakeasy has settled down into a more quietened state, an indication to Zayn that’s it’s now morning, without even having to look at the clock. Husbands will be returning to their wives, their children, their fragmented lives. And the rest will stay here until tomorrow, with no family to go home to, until their friends come back to share their sorrows.

Harry sits at the bar, waiting his order. Zayn tries not to look at him: he can still feel the flush of embarrassment shuffling over the skin of his cheeks.

“What will it be?”

“The weakest thing you have.”

Zayn quirks his brows but doesn’t question it—doesn’t ask how one goes from the strongest drink to the weakest, doesn’t ask what could have possibly changed for Harry to feel secure in sobriety. He doesn’t ask any questions, though he wants to. He simply pops the cap off a bottle of beer and slams it on the bar in front of Harry.

“The weakest thing we have,” Zayn says.

Harry’s lips turn to a grimace as he sips it. “What the fuck is this?”

“Coors beer,” Zayn says.

“Is there any alcohol in this at all?”

“About 0.5 percent, enough to get you just over the edge of tipsy after thirty of them, perhaps,” Zayn says. “The bright side is no Bulls can do nothing to you when you’re on the streets with one of those. Anything under 0.5 ain’t illegal.”

“No kidding,” Harry says.

“So,” Zayn begins with a sigh, “you work for the New York Times? Seems fancy.”

“I write for them,” Harry says, before elaborating. “I slink around the streets to find the traces of debauchery and corruption hidden in the cracks of the city to find something worth writing about.” He opens his pack of Lucky Strikes and lights one with a match. “Then I sit at my desk and write whatever words come to my mind—words that will captivate modern America, seize their attention, and strum them a line of thinking their sins aren’t so bad, as long as Normal Rockwell and Bessie Smith, even the President, are doing it, too.”

“That sounds… captivating,” Zayn replies.

“Oh,” he starts, a sarcasm in his eyes that isn’t lost on Zayn, “it is.”

“I bet that’s a good pay.”

“Compared to some places, I guess it is.” He swings his beer.

“Compared to places like this,” Zayn corrects him.

They catch each other’s eyes, but Harry looks away.

Harry won’t admit it, but he’s right. Zayn would be offended, if he hadn’t had to endure years of downward, oppressive judgment aimed at his every move, simply for moving. He’s used to the dampened walls and squeaky beds.

Zayn thinks he accepted the fact luxury isn’t in his grasp long ago; because in order to have luxury, you have to be luxurious, and Zayn’s hand-me-down’s and two cents an hour pay—if he’s lucky to get any pay at all—is the furthest thing he’s known from it.

“Look,” Zayn begins, leaning down onto the bar, so Harry can hear him, “if you want to write about this place, put it in your fancy newspaper, you’ve got the clear. But don’t be mentioning no names, no places, no people. These are our customers, and they’re our business. We don’t want no Bulls burning their powder and locking up our customers. They bring in the bucks.”

Harry proffers a glimmer of a smirk. “That sounded quite threatening.”

“Not a threat.” Zayn shakes his head. “Just a warning. For business sakes, you see.”

“Right, for business sakes,” Harry says. He shakes his bottle of beer. “Well, for business sakes, I’ll need a few more of these.”

By the time the sun rises, a line of dead soldiers lay across the bar in front of Harry and Zayn. Through his boredom, Zayn makes it his job to snatch a page of Harry’s paper from the notebook he’s got out in front of him, crinkle it up into balls, and see how many he can get into the lids of each bottle to entertain himself—which is more difficult than it looks, he tells Harry as the man mocks him.

Harry has two pages of notes to takes ideas from, which surprises Zayn because all he’s seen Harry do for the past six hours is drink and smoke all his Strikes, and mumble to Zayn past the incessant noise around them. He doesn’t even remember Harry picking up his pen whilst he was looking.

Then again, Zayn hasn’t been looking at him as often as he would really want—to the point where he’s abstained looking at him in some moments because Zayn thinks he just looks too damn fine under this lighting for him not to look, to avoid being transparent about his desperate and seeded glances. Though, he knows Harry knows, from the modest grins edging his lips whenever he catches Zayn looking at him from his peripheral view and snapping away before he thinks Harry has seen.

There’s a tension building, one that seems awfully prominent as the music quietens and the bar grows larger with open space, that both of them are trying their hardest to ignore.

“You’re telling me you sucked off Fitzgerald, in this place. Fitzgerald was in this bar,” Harry says. His pitch is tall and unbelieving.

“He sat in here and got wasted. Told me he wanted me to give him fellatio, told me he got his writing ideas from the sparks that orgasms left him.” Zayn shakes his head in remembrance of that wild night.

“I don’t believe you,” Harry says. His voice is croaky as he puffs on the last Strike of his pack of twenty, which was more than half full when he first walked in. (Zayn has to take responsibility for a few of those, at least.)

“You don’t have to believe me.” Zayn shrugs. “Sometimes my dick still tingles thinking about it.”

“That’s fantastically imprudent,” Harry says in a chuckle

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zayn says.

“Oh, it is,” he agrees. He looks to Zayn with reddened, hazy eyes. “There’s something about you, Zayn.” 

“About me?” 

“Yes. Just something I can’t put my finger on. I don’t know whether it’s your demeanour, brooding and sharp, always, like a cloud rains over you… If it’s your voice. God, sometimes you say words and it…” he sighs, exasperated, “it sounds like velvet rolling from your tongue. Whether it’s your God awful, pathetically charming smile. It gets me every time I look at you.”

Zayn’s heart is in his throat.

“I shouldn’t pay so much attention to it, but I do. Sometimes I look at you and its inescapable.”

“I think you might be drunk,” Zayn says in a quiet tone.

His shoulders slump in, tense, unsure of what to do with himself as Harry stares at him. His cheeks have grown warm, tinted a maroon that only comes from the honour of someone else’s pretty words.

“You said I couldn’t get drunk on these,” Harry states.

“Maybe I was wrong. I’ve never seen anyone drink as many of those as you have tonight. We’ll have to stock back up if you like them. Who knows, they might become a new hit,” he rambles.

“I drank them with the intention of being able to remember,” Harry admits. “So I could remember our encounter this time; not just in glimpses, but everything in all its entirety.”

Zayn smiles bashfully, shaking his head. “You’re lucky the bar is empty, otherwise people would think of you as an Ethel.”

“What if I am?” Harry asks. “Aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m not,” Zayn denies. He replies quicker than he should have, quick enough for Harry to latch on to the falsity of his words. He leans in, so if there is anyone around they won’t be able to hear. “Don’t call me that. I’m not anything.”

“Why are you whispering?” Harry asks, speaking just as low.

Zayn looks away, denying Harry an answer. 

“I’d like to repay you sometime,” Harry says. “For helping me get to my room, for letting me write about your place.”

“Just give me double on the beers.”

Harry shakes his head, looking voluntarily smug. Being this close, Zayn can see every line of his face—every imperfection and flaw. From the freckles that cover his nose; to the dark veins in the blueish bags encircling his skin; to the smaragdine of his eyes. He feels Harry’s breath getting warmer on his cheeks, and he backs away.

“Why did you leave?” Harry asks. When Zayn looks confused, he reiterates. “When I woke up in the hotel room, you were gone.”

Zayn focuses on putting the empty bottles under the bar. “There was a bar to run. I was already with you for too long, I didn’t want anyone to start asking questions.”

“The bed was cold when I woke up.”

“Are you not used to that?” Zayn asks. When there’s no answer, he continues. “You know, I regret leaving. When you walked through that door last night I was glad to see you. I didn’t want things to end on a… cumbersome note.”

“A cumbersome note”— Harry nods his head with elevated brows —“I like that.”

“Do you want another beer?” Zayn asks.

Harry pulls up his blazer and checks his watch. “No, I should head home. It’s 5am, I have work in a few hours.” He busies himself with stashing his notebook and pen back away in his bag. “How much do I owe you?”

“Eight beers… a dollar, sixty.”

Harry folds out two bills from a wad of cash stashed in the hidden pocket of his blazer and slides them over the bar. “You can keep the change.”

“Thanks.”

“It was good seeing you, Zayn.” He slips his coat over his shoulders. “I’ll be back in the week to get some more information on this place, and to pay you that favour.”

“I’ll be right here.” He gives Harry a short wave.

As Harry walks out, James walks in. Their shoulders brush as they pass on the stairs, and they give each other this glance—of hate, like a threatening growl could imitate a stare—like there’s a sense of familiarity that’s cold and fickle. Zayn watches, his brows furrowed, wondrous at the capture of the moment.

James sits down at the bar with a grumbling expression. “What was he doing here?”

“You know him?” Zayn asks.

But his question goes unanswered. Instead, he places James’ usual in a tumbler in front of him.

“You haven’t been... _intimate_ with him, have you?” James asks with clear disgust. 

“What?” Zayn asks, taken aback. He shakes his head after a moment of surprise. “No, no, of course I haven’t. What do you take me for?”

“You should stay away from him,” James advises. He sips his drink. “Don’t ask me why, I ain’t justifying myself. And I ain’t here to talk, either. I’m just here to drink.”

Zayn sees it; the frustration hanging low in his brow, seeping through his aftershave and the sweat going cold along his moustache. So, he leaves it be. He watches James get wasted into the late morning and listens to his mumbles of hard-knock life.

The questions left without answers ricochet into the darkness of the evening.

 

 

• • V • •

 

Harry never was one for social events.

He remembers all the times he would hide away in his room, back home, when their house became too busy with celebration and loud conversations. The times he’d try not to burst out into tears when his family and friends surprised him on his birthday, with pastries from the best bakery in town that his mother would save up all year to afford. In school, when the classroom became too crowded and his heart would beat so fast that he thought it would pop in his chest like a balloon.

That fear, that raucous, bleeding pump pulsing through his veins, is no less prominent now that it was as a child, as he stands in the middle of the bustling room, surrounded by his colleagues, his boss, and some of the most important people in New York. In fact, what he’s feeling now seems like a tornado from the seedling of a storm he felt as an adolescent boy, with an irrational fear of monsters creeping in his shadow as he walked.

He doesn’t know how James did it, how he booked out a penthouse on such short notice—though, knowing James and the shady nature of his ways, Harry thinks he has an inkling of a suspicion—but he gives him props for it, either way. Harry’s never seen the top floor of The Grand Bourdoir until now. He’s only ever seen the evening dances, the tailored wine, and the empty beds in their hotel rooms. It’s astounding, he thinks, how such a fine establishment, one of the best hotels in the city, pulls off having such a clandestine and corrupt business running underneath the pipes of its interior. He almost laughs.

“Mr. Styles,” he hears. From behind him, a group of men, who’s head-to-toe designer suits shine with profligacy and success, stare at him with flared, mischievous eyes.

Mr. Tarol, the wealthiest of the pack, beckons him over with ring-clad fingers.

Harry senses the influence waving off them as he approaches. He gives them his most practised smile and greets them with upmost respect, like he was told to. He even throws in a nod that turns out more like a bow.

“It’s a pleasure to have you all here tonight, gentlemen,” Harry says. “I know Boss is very happy you could all make it.”

“I’m sure he is.” One of them snickers; the rest of them follow.

“Has he arrived yet? I’m sure I was told he wishes to speak to me, but I haven’t seen him,” Mr. Tarol says.

“Not yet, sir, no,” Harry replies. “He should be here soon. If I see him, I’ll let him know where you are.”

He’s awarded an affirmative nod, before he speaks again. “I have to say, Mr. Styles, I’m impressed with your recent work. Some of it I find very amusing.”

“My work?” Harry repeats, his surprise displayed in the lifting of his brows. “You read my column?”

“Every week.” He gives Harry a reassured smile.

“Yeah, you’re the guy that wrote that piece on the murder case in the woods last spring, right?” a man Harry doesn’t recognise asks him. “That was some good writing. I hope you got paid big bucks for that.”

“No less than normal,” Harry replies, modestly. He feels the self-doubt of being around such successful mean creep in like the bitter draft that sweeps in through the open windows. He sips on his champagne and hopes for his cheeks to cool down.

“Baloney,” the man says with a scoff. “A man of your talents working an hourly rate? You should consider working for commission. You’d make more money.”

“And do you do that? Work for commission,” Harry asks.

There’s a chuckle that drifts between them all. “We own the commission, Mr. Styles.”

“Oh.” How truly successful are these men? “Well, I don’t do it for the money. I do it to write. In any way I can.”

“An honest man.” He claps Harry on the back. “I like that.”

“You should. Do it for the money, I mean,” Mr. Tarol says. “Otherwise, what’s the point of being good at something? Just think about it, Mr. Styles. I’ll put in a good word for you.  

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Mr—”

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking, then,” Mr. Tarol interrupts him.

Harry nods with an unsure gaze, but he knows better than to disrespect the words of a man who sits higher than him. So, he sends his gratitude and humility out to all of them and excuses himself, as he feels his nerves become too difficult to hide. He walks around the room, greeting those in passing, until he eventually finds himself sat on a barstool in the corner of the room, breathless.

“Feel like a worthless ant beneath their shoes, too?” Harry swivels around on his seat at the familiar voice. Zayn stares back at him, grinning. “Harry.”

“Zayn,” Harry replies. A sense of relief releases from him. He turns around, so he’s facing the bar fully, and rests his arms in front of him. He can see Zayn already at working making a drink. Harry’s lips flicker. “I forgot you were going to be here.”

“I was confused when you didn’t stop by,” Zayn says. He shifts a tumbler in front of him filled with dark liquid. “Whiskey,” he tells him.

He nods Zayn a thanks and takes a sip. “I’m a busy man, I didn’t have time.” 

“I figured as much.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Zayn shrugs. He proffers Harry a side-lipped smile. “How’s it going?” 

“I feel like I’m being judged for every step I take,” he mutters. 

“If you feel that way, think about how I feel,” Zayn says with a scoff. “A scrawny, good-for-nothing bar-boy, whose only purpose is to serve drinks and be seen and not heard. You know, I’ve been ordered not to say a word, tonight. Unless somebody gives me a tip, then I’m allowed to thank them, but… none of these arrogant bastards will. They won’t even give me a glance.”

Harry frowns, dissentingly. “Who gave you that order?” he asks.

He’s not surprised, nor is he disappointed, when he doesn’t get an answer, when he gets nothing except for a thin-lipped smile that seems difficult to hold. Although Zayn doesn’t respond to him, Harry thinks he knows the answer already. He doesn’t press on; instead, he sips his drink and looks to Zayn. “I’m sure you’ve got some talent hidden somewhere between those pearly eyes of yours.”

Zayn gives him a small laugh, one he almost doesn’t hear over the music playing around them. 

“There’s nothing,” he says, and shakes his head. He looks to Harry: their eyes meet with a mingling sense of doubt and curiosity. “I’m not—I’m not good at anything. Except for serving drinks, maybe.”

It’s Harry’s turn to shake his head at Zayn. “I don’t—”

“Harry,” he’s interrupted. A hand falls on his shoulder, and he turns to see James stood beside him. He’s clad in a dark-green suit and a red tie, to fit the season—as opposed to Harry’s choice of a full black suit. “Boss is here. He wants you to join him and the sponsors in the lounge.”

Harry nods, knowing it’s not a good idea to argue with his boss, especially in front of his peers. He looks to Zayn and nods.

“I’ll see you soon, Zayn,” he says. Zayn gives him a nod back. He looks to James. “Are you invited?”

James sighs, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. “No. But I can escort you.”

“I’m not a child. Keep yourself busy.”

Harry stands from the bar and walks into a crowd of people situating themselves in the middle of the room, some dancing, others merely swaying as they talk. It’s like something pulls him, you see; a magnetic force, a whisper in his ear that persuades him to look over his shoulder to see what he’s leaving behind.

Across the room, past the lights and the camouflage of Zayn’s black clothes against the deep wood of the bar, he sees Zayn’s face turn cold and fall flat as James leans over and whispers something to him. Harry can almost see the venom spitting from James’ mouth as he speaks—or perhaps it’s just his bias—a plethora of emotions rocking Zayn’s countenance. He stands as still and as off as a statue, absorbing the abuse as it bounces off the walls and hits him. Then, James walks away, but Zayn still stands there, not moving—not even looking like he’s breathing—and closes his eyes tight enough that his skin crinkles and tenses on his face. 

Though Harry’s fists are whitened and balled, he turns away before anyone can notice him staring. He wishes he could turn back, ask him what’s wrong, but he can’t. He has a room of wealthy socialites ahead of him that could determine the shape of his future. So, he turns his lips to a smile, a smile he’s convinced himself is real, and walks in to a room of affluence and smoke. 

“Ah, there he is,” Boss says the moment he sees Harry through the thick haze. He stands and wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “My best employee, and one of the best writers in the city, I can assure you that. He’s the Fitzgerald of this place, no bluff.”

“I don’t think that’s true, sir,” Harry dissents.

“Ah, baloney, Harry, your humility is peeving. Come, sit down. We were just discussing the future of the company. Mr. Tarol says we could possibly expand to Pennsylvania and Maine by the end of next year.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We’re all briefly accustomed with your works,” one man says. He holds a cigar between the smugness of his teeth, sparing him no intimidation as he looks Harry’s way.

“Thank you,” Harry replies.

“I told you, I haven’t seen a bad word come from this man,” Boss praises from beside him.

Harry does his best not to turn crimson under the warm gaze of those in the room. He’s not used to this. He’s not used to Boss acting as if he’s the most cheerful man in the world. He’s used to nonchalant looks and lackadaisical hums of agreement when he writes something particularly good, something that scrapes the barrel of the expectations held to his throat like a knife.

The room is heaving with duplicity and cigar smoke that seems to be suffocating him; and he feels like he’s stumbled into a place he doesn’t belong and all eyes are on him, like he’s growing something fantastical out the side of his head and it’s the key to the gleam in their jewellery as it shines under the light. He holds on to his drink with a sureness that he’ll take the first chance he can to leave.

“Talent is nothing if it’s wasted,” one of the men say; some nod in agreement.

“And talent like yours, Mr. Styles, could get you places, could show you some faces,” a man next to Tarol says. He looks familiar, or the scar passing his eyebrow does. Harry’s fingers tingle with the temptation to reach up and touch his chest. “Talent like yours is the force that could get your company here from New York all the way to Washington.”

Harry sends his boss a look, who nods his head subtly and sips his drink in response.

A sliver of placation to fight the deep sense of insufficiency blooms within his chest.

Tarol chuckles. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ajay. They need sponsors to do that.”

“Would you be? A sponsor, I mean,” Harry says in a moment of pure confidence, of defiance, of the shock of that ephemeral balloon of pride popping in his chest and forcing the words out. Everyone’s eyes land on him, but he doesn’t lower his own, no matter how much he’s tempted. He stands his ground.

There’s a spark of surprise in the air, flickers of eyes between one another, anticipation curdling in their drinks. In honesty, Harry just wants to shrink into a ball and roll away—to Zayn, maybe, so they can both hide behind the defences of the bar he wants to isolate himself behind. 

“Now, let me ask you a question,” Tarol begins, leaning forward, business-like, eyes like stone. “There are hundreds of newspaper housings across the country, all controlled by the same handful of companies that write the same manufactured shit as one another. What is so different about yours?”

Harry takes a moment to assemble his words and take a deep breath.

“Well, we offer something no other newspaper company does: truth. The truth people want to read instead of the false, plastered truth power wants society to believe. Updated stances on the political board, which of the latest ALS’s are losing their minds in saloons and taverns across the city, what the most admired celebrities are snorting.” The room laughs. “You have to hold the key to unlock the secret of what the people want.”

“And you think you hold that key, do you?” Mr. Tarol prompts.

Harry glances at Boss, who nods at him in encouragement. “Yes, sir. I believe I do.”

Tarol looks indifferent, but Harry knows better. He hums. “And what part do you play in this, Andrew?”

“Well, it’s my company. I’d like to have a little more reign over what society is reading, a little more money in the bank.” He smirks. “Besides, I have the best writers. It’s an attainable goal.”

“I’m not entirely convinced,” Tarol goads.

Boss sighs. “There’s so much business here, and there’s so much here to lose if it isn’t grabbed at with deserving hands.”

“And you think your hands are deserving, do you, Boss?” Ajay asks, snide-lipped.

Boss narrows his eyes. “Yes, I do, Saraway. More deserving than some.”

“Don’t start again, boys,” Tarol warns, and they fall quiet. He looks to Harry. “What do you think, Mr. Styles?”

Harry shrugs after a brief pause. “I think, as a man who clearly appreciates wealth and reputation, you’d have more to gain here than you will ever have to lose.”

There’s a moment where Harry thinks the room is going to crack, like the ceiling is going to come down from above and crush them—the idea of rejection is making a part of him hope for it. He hears every sound, every breath around them.

In a trice, it all becomes certain, a sharp clearing through the smoke. He sees the slip in Tarol’s façade. Then, before anyone has ushered a word, Harry exhales and it feels like the first breath of crisp, winter air; the first breath that doesn’t leave his lungs screaming for something sweeter than tar.

“Mr. Boss,” Tarol says. The tension in the room piques and then bursts open, like a pin has been pushed through it.

“Yes, Mr. Tarol?”

“I’ll leave it up to you to book an appointment for the signing,” he says. “And give Mr. Styles here a raise.”

“So, that’s a deal?”

Tarol suspires. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

 _Well, that's it? It's that easy?_ Harry thinks. All the anxiety leading up to this moment falls in one anti-climactic whoosh inside his chest, knowing now it was unnecessary. Boss had made it out to be such a huge deal, but Tarol seems to have taking a liking to him—he supposes that’s the fractional luck he has left in his bones. A smirk rests along the rims of his lips.

Boss stands to his feet in a cheer and shakes Tarol’s hand, ushering him with arse-kissing compliments. After escaping his hold, Tarol turns to Harry, who takes his hand willingly.

“You have a strong hand,” Tarol says to him in a quiet voice. He pulls Harry closer so he, and only he, can hear him. “You also have a way with words, Mr. Styles. If you ever want your talent to be of more use, you come to me. I’d hate to see such youth be put to waste.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He slips from the hold, composure in check, and sits back down.

Boss turns to him, leaning down and tapping his cheek. He looks around to check if anyone’s listening. “That request I asked of you, how is it going?”

“Fine, sir,” Harry replies, with his satisfaction more dulled than it was moments ago.

“Good. I want to complete this before we do real business with these men, before my business becomes there’s, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a good man, Styles. And my chief writer, don’t let me down.” He pats Harry on the back and stands to his feet with hands raised in the air. “Drinks on me, boys!” 

Harry is in such a daze—it’s the overwhelming cloud of smoke from the many lit cigars in the room, he thinks—that he doesn’t notice Zayn when he walks in the room. He doesn’t notice his meek and weary frame step through the layer of haze and celebration in the room, how his eyes are kept on the ground, even when orders are barked at him.

Harry doesn’t notice at first, but when he does his eyes widen, and Zayn’s presence forces the weight of realisation to come crashing down upon his high.

“A bottle of champagne,” Boss orders.

Zayn nods, his eyes flickering up to Harry, but Harry is no longer looking at him. Instead, he’s staring at Mr. Saraway, who’s hand grazes its way across the side of Zayn’s arm and travels down his thigh, a touch that makes Zayn noticeably uncomfortable. He tries to shy away from the touch, Harry notices, but a harsh hand pulls him back.

Harry’s fists, much like Zayn’s, curl at his sides. Harry doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t like that. _Not one bit._

He rushes from the room. but returns only moments later—Harry thinks Zayn must have ran back to the bar and prepared everything as fast as he could—and he feels a pinch of ire in his throat.

“So, Harry, how is the family?” Tarol asks him, his icy resolve melting away.

Though he feels the crack in his heart deepen a little further, he slips on a fake grin. “They’re fine, thank you,” he replies. “Yourself?”

Harry doesn’t listen to the response. His attention is on Zayn and how he seems to be stumbling—cautiously—around the room to fill everyone’s flutes with bubbling champagne. His attention is on the faint glimmer of mischief in Saraway’s iris’ sitting opposite him, as his eyes follow Zayn, too. When he’s done, Harry watches Zayn scamper away into the corner of the room to await his next instruction.

“What do you think you’re looking at?” a man Harry doesn’t know asks in a low voice.

It’s enough to stop the motion of everyone else in the room.

Harry looks up to see Zayn's eyes bolting from his and back to the floor. His jaw is locked shut, eyes squinting closed. He gently shakes his head. Harry looks around the room to see the annoyed expressions of the men around him, as if Zayn’s presence sullies their good names and dirties their money. How they look Zayn up and down like he’s dirt that’s fallen from their shoes. 

Now, Harry doesn’t like that. Not a _single bit._

“I’m talking to you,” the man continues.

“Leave the boy alone, Wathe,” Tarol instructs.

He can hear the shakiness in Zayn’s lungs as he takes a breath. “I—”

A hand comes to slap Zayn’s cheek, a hand that comes out of nowhere, one that takes Harry and Tarol and every other man in the room by surprise. Zayn’s face swings to the side from the power of the blow, his cheek reddening with the lineation of a hand.

Something tumbles in Harry’s chest and he stands up so fast he’s disoriented. But his eyes remain on Zayn, even when everyone else’s eyes fall back on him. 

“I need a piss,” Harry says. He gestures towards Zayn and the door. “I’ll take him out with me.”

“Make sure he doesn’t come back in,” Tarol says, calmly. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble.” 

Harry grabs Zayn roughly by the arm and yanks him forward as they both leave the room. He can hear Zayn’s heavy breathing from his parted lips as they walk. Harry doesn’t let go of him until they’re in a dark, empty corridor and the noise from the party is blocked by the closing doors. Then, his hand around Zayn’s arm shifts, loosens, but he doesn’t let go.

He gives Zayn a moment to catch his breath and regather himself.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks after a beat of silence.

His brows are deep, face contorting to one of worry. Harry doesn’t know why he’s worried, and he doesn’t give himself time to try and rationalise it in his mind before his fingers are reaching up to carve the shape of the hand print on Zayn’s cheek.

“I’m fine,” Zayn responds. Harry remains unconvinced.

“I don’t believe you—”

“I don’t give a fuck if you don’t believe me, Harry,” Zayn snaps. His eyes spring wild for a second and return back to their normal sobered state.

Harry takes a step back. Zayn sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. When he looks back up to Harry, his eyes are gleaming with tears. His hand reaches up to rub the side of his face that’s sore from the blow.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Forgive me, please.”

“Of course. Of course, I do.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry they treated you that way.”

“It’s nothing I’m not used to.” He sighs, a look of distress passing over him. “My father is going to kill me,” his voice is almost a whisper as he speaks—Harry suspects Zayn was talking more to himself than anyone.

“Your father?” Harry asks, brows knitted. "Is he the one who said you weren’t allowed to speak?” No answer, just a deep silence, with the music from the party reverberating through the walls. “Is it because he’s ashamed of you?”

“What?” That gets Zayn to respond. “No, no, it’s not… I tend to be clumsy, I tend to slip up and say things when I can’t bite my tongue. He—he didn’t want me to embarrass him, he didn’t want me to fuck this up. This is money for him, this is business, and we both know my father and I aren’t really wanted here tonight, and he didn’t want me to fuck it up, is all, and I… He just… He doesn’t like when I let my thoughts get in the way of—Look, you don’t understand, okay? You won’t ever understand it," he rambles. 

“Zayn—”

“Harry,” Zayn interrupts, his tone abrasive, “don’t. It’s none of your business. Please, drop it.”

Harry heeds his warning. He sees the gentle anger in the creases of Zayn’s forehead and lets them wane into a silence. Zayn huffs, sniffing though his nose dry. It’s quiet enough that they can hear each other’s breathing; how beautiful of a juxtaposition Zayn’s heavy and cumbersome breathes are to Harry’s steady own.

He watches Zayn, how he can’t seem to keep his face still in the dead beat of the night. His fingers tap his hip, his face turned to the side to avoid Harry’s, and his lip taken into the confinements of his teeth as they turn cherry. Then, as he gazes down, Harry notices the trickle of red oozing at the corner of Zayn’s mouth.

“Your lip is bleeding.”

Subconsciously, Harry’s finger raises to wipe the blood away. He steps forward so his arm can reach, and he takes the blood on the back of his finger and smears it against his trousers.  Though, Zayn flinches at the contact—and Harry can’t decipher whether it’s from the pain diffusing from the cut or the touch of Harry’s cold fingertip—he doesn’t pull away. He lets Harry touch him, even when Harry’s hand lingers across his lips and sweeps across the area of Zayn’s cheek to cup it in his palm.

“Well, it’s difficult to tell,” Harry begins, narrowing his eyes as they analyse Zayn’s cheek, “but I don’t think your pretty is broken.”

“My pretty?” Zayn looks up to Harry with a sweep of his lashes that hide his eyes as they morph with amusement.

“Yes, your pretty.” Harry nods. “Your lip might swell a bit, you should try and put some salt on it.”

“Salt?” Zayn asks, doubt in his eyes. “Why would I put salt on my lip?”

“It helps bring the swelling down, makes it less obvious,” Harry explains. “And your cheek might bruise, it’s puffy. I’d put ice on it.”

“How do you know all this stuff? You a nurse, or something?”

“No, but I learned things like this in the war. How to… how to, you know, bandage your own wounds and that,” he says.

Harry coughs awkwardly, but he doesn’t avoid Zayn’s eyes. No, this time he looks straight at them. They’re staring back at him, still glistening, still red, but darting over his face. Harry’s hand is still on his cheek, and he’s carefully aware of it, but he doesn’t make a move to change their position. He gently sweeps his thumb across the redness of Zayn’s cheek.

It’s only then that Zayn’s eyes flash bright in cognisance, and he steps back from Harry’s touch, so his back is flat against the wall. Harry steps back to give him some space. 

“You can go, Harry. There’s a room of wealthy assholes waiting for you,” Zayn says, his voice quiet. His eyes are trained to floor, not moving to even glance up. Harry reaches out to touch his arm, but Zayn slides further away from him. “Thank you for helping me get out of there, thank you for making sure I’m okay.”

“It’s—”

Zayn has the door swung open and the music blaring through the quiet hallway before Harry can even finish his sentence. He’s gone before Harry can register that he’s gone, and only the lingering scent of his aftershave, and the drying smear of blood on his fingertip, remains.

Harry sighs. “It’s fine. Glad I could help.”

 

 • • VI • •

  

Zayn is glad to see everyone leaving the party. The room is wet with intoxication and the simmering of laughter and happiness. The aftertaste is bitter on Zayn’s tongue; or that might just be the left-over blood. He doesn’t waste a moment to look up as the room quietens and a chill of winter air drifts past his feet. He stands patiently, holding the door open for everyone to leave. 

A pair of footsteps walk through the door and stop in front of him. Zayn doesn’t look up, but he already knows who it is. The long, black coat, the freshly shined shoes, the trickle of dominance that pours from his heavy pockets and confident steps, and that poignant scent of cigar smoke curdling the air around him.

“You’re Clane’s boy, aren’t you?” he asks. Fingers prod at Zayn’s chest when he remains silent. “I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

A finger reaches under Zayn’s chin to bring it up, assessing the faint bruise on his cheek. “Nothing you didn’t deserve. Though, I think, if anyone deserves to be smacked, it’s your old man,” he grumbles. 

In his mind, Zayn agrees. Oh, he’s nodding his head along enthusiastically. But he remains silent.

Zayn almost chances a fragment of a smile. But a wave of alarm, a flush in his chest, sparks him back a step before he can. Because he knows that smile—the one he sees the man wearing from the corner of his eye—and he knows what it means. The man advances forward, taking his slender and ageing fingers around Zayn’s throat before he can protest, and squeezes. Zayn lets the door go and its weighted wood slams back into the frame.

They’re alone in the hallway now. Zayn is on the tips of his toes. He tries to wiggle from the man’s hold but useless. The grip around his neck is too sure to break.

“You tell your son of a bitch of a father,” he begins in a formidable voice that makes chills creep up Zayn’s spine, “You tell that father of yours that he’s lucky he’s getting a dime of money for his miserable existence.”

Zayn nods. The fingers around his throat tighten. Wheezing, he takes the last remaining air from his lungs and pushes out a strained, “Yes, sir.”

Zayn stands, his back crushed against the wall, gasping, choking under the hand that keeps him pressed there against his will. And he feels an inch fucking tall. Like he could be squashed into nothing in a moment. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and a distant pinch in his tongue.

The man looks to him, assessing the damage. He grunts, as if he’s disappointed. “He should have hit you harder.”

“Boss,” a voice intercepts him. Zayn recognises the gravelly tone of James almost immediately. He takes a moment of the man’s unwilling respite, who seems to be distracted momentarily and loosens his fingers around Zayn’s throat, to take in a full breath.

The man’s glaring expression lingers on Zayn for a moment, before they wander somewhere Zayn can’t see.

“What it is, Hoyden?” Zayn can sense the irritation of being interrupted dancing around the corners of the man’s eyes. The sweep of a distant growl quakes on his fingertips as they squeeze and finally let go of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn drops to the floor in a mess of coughs and splutters. The sudden rush of air gyrating in his lungs is too inundating, and his hand comes up to hold his throat. His cold palm is soothing on the heated skin of his neck he’s sure is reddened and beginning to bruise, too.

“Saraway is looking for you, talking about something you told him to hold you to.”

The man, Boss, mumbles something under his breath with gritted teeth— “fucking good for nothing” —before sighing. Zayn feels the slip of warm saliva dripping off his forehead, followed by footsteps as the man walks away.

He wipes the spit off with the back of his hand and stands, with the assistance of James’ hands as they wrap around his own and leans his back against the wall.

“Are you okay, Zayn?”

Zayn almost scoffs. People _really_ need to stop asking him that.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“Why don’t you take a seat.” James gestures to the line of single chairs against the wall beside them.

Zayn shakes his head. “No.”

“Your legs are shaking—”

“I don’t need you to coddle me, okay?” Zayn raises his voice. He yanks his arms out from James’ hold, and looks away just as he sees the man’s face hardening.

“I’m helping you because you need help right now,” James replies, his tone equally as spiteful. “Don’t be an ass about it.”

He practically pushes Zayn down onto a seat; Zayn hisses at the pressure being placed down on his bruised shoulder.

“What happened?” James asks. “What did you do this time?”

Oh, of course, it’s me, Zayn thinks. It’s always me. It’s always what I did wrong.

“I got them mad,” Zayn mumbles, massaging his sore neck. He hopes he’ll be able to cover the majority of this one up; if he does the top buttons up on his shirt, he might be able to. “I paid the consequences.”

“Who? Who was it over?”

God, it’s moments like these where Zayn wishes he was a good liar, wishes he was a better liar than he is; wishes he was as convincing as those magicians downtown that stun crowds to gasps of silence with their illusions. So then, when he looks up in to James’ eyes and plans the fabrications in his head, he wouldn’t look so transparent that James can tell he’s lying before he even speaks a word.

“I—”

“The truth, Zayn. It’s common decency not to lie to your friends.”

“You lie to me all the time.”

It’s true, it is. Whether it’s white lies, like the ones where he tells Zayn he’s not going to get drunk, he’s not there to get away, he’s not like everyone else. To the more prosaic, deeper, more courageous lies: he’s not cheating on his wife with some mistress across town he takes his wedding ring off for; he’s not plotting, single-handedly, how to murder someone of power in the drunken mumblings of his early morning swings; he’s a good guy; he’s Zayn’s friend.

“I like to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Zayn objects.

He hates when people say that—when they treat him like a child, who can’t protect himself. Like he hasn’t been doing that since he really was a child. Like he’s weak, when he’s anything but.

“Who was it, Zayn? Was it Tarol, Saraway, Reece?” Zayn shakes his head no, begrudgingly. “Was it Harry?”

Their eyes meet in a clashing dance of determination and resistance. Zayn’s eyebrows raise, his mouth a thin line, and he looks as if he’s been caught red-handed for something he hasn’t done. Because that’s what it is to Zayn: nothing. He didn’t do nothing. But a punch, a puncture in his chest as the nail is hit on the head and pushed further down between his ribcage, shocks him into thinking maybe he did do something wrong. And for a fleeting moment of weakness, guilt riddles him.

Zayn does more damage than he does good by staying silent, but he feels tongue-tied. He doesn’t know what to say. What does he say?

“It was Harry, wasn’t it?” James laughs corruptly. “That bastard got you fucked up.”

“He didn’t do this.” Zayn shakes his head. “James, he didn’t do this. He didn’t hit me, he wouldn’t.”

James lowers his eyes, so they’re level with Zayn’s. He sees corruption—pure, black, inky corruption, pooling in his eyes and a light shower of sincerity. “He did this to you the moment he walked into that bar. He did this the moment he came back and asked Clane Malik to be the juice connection for the party. He should have minded his own fucking business when I told him.”

“What?” Zayn asks, confused. When James told him what? 

James runs a stressed hand through his overgrown hair, ruining the perfect style. His other hand rests on his hip and pulls at the band where his belt should lie.

“He’s no good, Zayn. He’s no fucking good. The very air around him is tainted, makes me curl my fists. If he isn’t going to mind his own fucking business, then you must. I told him weeks ago to mind his own goddamn business.”

It hits Zayn, then and there. Their small interaction at the bar like they knew one another, the awkward tension weeks ago as they were both in the speakeasy. For the first time tonight, it hits him that James and Harry are both here for the same reason. How could he be so foolish?

He almost smacks himself in the head for not realising it before, back when he checked the list of names and noticed the majority of the invitations were for employees only. It didn’t cross his mind that both James and Harry were on there, that they both would be here tonight. That they work together.

“You work with Harry, is that what you do? Do you hate him because of that?” Zayn asks.

“I don’t—I don’t hate him, Zayn. I despise him. Trust me, he’s no good for you. He’s no good for anyone. I’ll be throwing my own party the day the dick gets fired.”

“James, I—” 

“You always act so fucking foolish, don’t you?” James looks to him, a hard shade in his eyes. “You always find a way to get yourself in the middle of something.”

Zayn doesn’t respond, mostly because he feels taken aback by the bluntness, the complete switch, in James’ attitude—though, he should be used to it by now. But he doesn’t have the energy to argue, not now. He’s been the brunt of people’s abuse enough for one night.

“Zayn.” James sighs. He rolls a stressed hand over his eyes and rests a gentle hand on Zayn’s untouched shoulder. “Are you still saving?” Zayn nods. “Good.”

Zayn watches James fold his wallet out from his pocket. He shifts a twenty between Zayn’s palm, adding some other notes to make a pile.

“Twenty-five for the night—I owe Clane twenty-five, right? Five in tips, keep the other dollars for yourself. Don’t tell anyone about them."

Zayn shakes the money in his palm. “I can’t take this.” 

“I admire your goodness, Zayn. Your humility. But sometimes it’s extremely grating. Just take the money, it’s not like I’ll be without it for long.” 

Zayn sighs but protests no further. “Okay.”

“Take care of yourself, kid,” James says.

He ruffles Zayn’s hair—like an older brother would to his sibling—and gives him this swiping, thin-lipped smile Zayn struggles to decipher whether is genuine or not—but he doesn’t have time to figure out. James is gone, pushing past a door and leaving Zayn silent as the breeze strokes the crimsons of his cheeks.

He stands to his feet and crams the crumpled notes into his pocket, though they burn a hole in his side. Zayn keeps his fingers over the area for the rest of the night, like he’s holding onto something as precious as jewels.

To Zayn, he is.

 

• • VII • •

 

“What’s with you and James?” Zayn asks Harry.

They both sit in the speakeasy, a bottle of gin and seltzer slowing falling empty as they refill their drinks. They’re the only ones here, with the bar being closed for Christmas Eve. That means Zayn doesn’t have to worry about how their knees knock together from time to time, and how his eyes wander much farther down than they should whenever Harry looks away to jot something in his notepad.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s something between you two, you and James,” Zayn reiterates. “He seems to be under the impression that you’re no good.”

Harry huffs. “That—Did he say that? That wanker. How do you know him?”

“He’s a friend.”

“A friend,” Harry repeats.

“Yes. An adequately judgmental one, but a friend nevertheless.”

“You should get better friends, Zayn.” Harry doesn’t look to him as he speaks. Instead, he’s writing something down in his little reporter’s notebook. But Zayn hears the sincerity ring sharp like a bell.

It makes his heart pang.

“And where would I find those? You mean, amongst the drunks here, or the flappers and the prostitutes down on 48th, with their frilly skirts and faux fur coats that shine with old semen? I’m sure I’ll find great companions in them,” Zayn jokes and laughs sarcastically, taking a large swig of his drink to clean the glass. He reaches for more.

“Am I not your friend?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says in a quiet voice. “Are you?”

“Do you think I would sit with you now, if I wasn’t? You think I’d show concern for you, if I wasn’t?” Harry frowns, as if in censure but his eyes are soft and un-condemning.

Zayn twiddles with the lid of his bottle. “They’re the actions of a decent person, Harry. How could I discern that?”

“You’re right. And I’m guessing you don’t meet many decent people in this place.” Harry nods in understanding, whilst Zayn fills up their glasses again. “Well, I am your friend. Of course I am. How could I not be? You practically trapped me in a corner the day I met you.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“I told you, there’s something about you. I can’t put my finger on it.” Harry shakes his head, almost as if the thought of it frustrates him.

Zayn looks up and down, his eyes feathery in a fluster. He hopes the lights are dim enough to disguise some of the tint he knows resides on his cheeks, one he knows is certain when Harry’s knee brushes against the inside of his again.

He takes a deep breath. “Well, I don’t have many friends—in fact, I have two and they both dislike each other, and it’s all ironically twisted—so we should toast to that. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve.”

 “You’re absolutely right,” Harry says. They both raise their glasses with grins, though Harry has this edge, unwittingly flirtatious like it always is, glimmering in the rim of his lips. “To new friendships.”

“And happiness,” Zayn adds.

Harry’s smile falters for a moment, but he picks it back up quicker than it fell. “To new friendships and happiness.”

Their glasses clink and are brought to their lips, though their eyes remain locked over the rim. Harry’s eyes are dark and oh, so beautifully emerald, and they stare back at him with a profound ambiguity Zayn hopes his hazy mind isn’t misconstruing.

“You didn’t tell me about James,” Zayn reminds him. “I didn’t forget, it didn’t get past me. Go on, tell me. Tell me why he thinks you’re some sort of devil in human skin.”

Harry sighs into a shrug. “It’s a handful of reasons, I believe. Some I know and some I don’t, and I don’t particularly care about finding out. I don’t think there’s one singular thing that set him off.”

“There must have been something,” Zayn goads. He moves closer to Harry.

“Uh… I guess this whole rivalry delusion he’s got going on started when I began working at the NYT. He was indifferent at the start, when I first began working at the company. He was just this quiet, brooding, left-hand man to my boss who seemed to never quit this… this attitude he had. He paid no attention to me, probably because he didn’t know I existed.

“But then I got promoted and promoted again. I became the guy people clapped on the back and came to for favours. The boss was pleased with me, real pleased, and he started coming to me with stories that must have been designated to James but got handed over to me because he thought I’d do a better job. And James, well, he became jealous, spiteful. He’d throw my belongings on the floor and give me the dirtiest looks. I was intimidated by him for a while, until Boss told me the war had influenced him, and it had left him a bitter man. He lost a lot. A lot. He didn’t tell you any of this?”

“No.” Zayn shakes his head. “He’s a reserved man, doesn’t tell me anything, not anymore. The war changed him.”

“You knew him before the war?” 

“Yes. We’ve known each other since we were boys. But the war… it’s like a completely different man stepped out the other side of it.”

“I can’t imagine Hoyden being anything other than a maniacal dickhead.” Harry scoffs and sips his juice.

“Please, continue,” Zayn requests. "Continue your story." 

“Right, where was I…” Harry fades away, mind rattling.  His eyes seem to mist over and turn away, before readjusting to an intent Zayn, sat curiously beside him.

Zayn has this temptation, this itch, to reach out and stroke Harry’s arm. To comfort him, or possibly for his own, more selfish divulgence. He keeps his hands around his drink and in his lap, though they scream to move.

“James… He made it his responsibility to create this pathetic rivalry between us that only took place in his head, until he took it too far and made me resent him. Since I got my last promotion back in May—to Boss’ official wing-man—he’s been even more unyielding. He set my coat on fire in the summer.”

“What?” Zayn splutters over his drink. “You know what, I’m not surprised.”

“Well, there’s no proving it was him, but who else would do something like that?” Harry asks. “Sometimes he can be a right piece of work.”

“So, that’s why he hates you? Some stupid grudge of jealousy and indecency?” Zayn asks. Harry nods. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Please, don’t. It’s a very real hate.” Harry laughs. “Sometimes I get worried he’s going to pull a knife on me.”

“James is all talk, no punch,” Zayn assures.

“Not like that matters, I’d beat him in an altercation with my eyes closed.”

“So sure, so vain,” Zayn teases.

“What can I say?” He puffs his chest with a comedically smug grin.

Zayn just shakes his head with a small smile of his own and goes back to swilling his glass, listening to the clink of the ice as it hits the side.

His eyes zone in on the tightness of Harry’s trousers against his legs, around his crotch, and, fuck, along his hips. He can’t see much in the bleakness of the bar, but the idea of what he can’t see lets his mind wander, lets his teeth take in his bottom lip and suck, lets him wiggle on his seat to become more comfortable as his own slacks move. A sigh escapes him.

This is so _fucked_.

He feels the trickle of fingers along the side of his jaw, and he looks up so quick that these black spots appear in his vision. But Harry—Harry is as clear as day. His eyes. His lips. His pale skin. The hand that’s reached out towards Zayn and pressing against the softness of his cheek. Zayn gasps, and he hopes Harry can’t hear the heaviness of his heart as it begins to beat out of normal rhythm, like a drum in his ears.

Harry’s hands trace the fading line of his bruise. Lower, the cut across his cheek. Sliding over the healing skin on the edge of his lip. His finger is so gentle, so rough; cold and warming his skin simultaneously.

People don’t—He’s never—No one has ever touched Zayn this way: so gentle, so meticulous. So... so intimate. If it wasn’t for the involuntary movement of his body leaning in to Harry, Zayn is sure he’d stumble off his barstool.

“Your skin is so soft,” Harry mumbles. “Like a baby. I’ve never met someone so effeminate, and yet so… manly.”

“I’m a man, Harry. What did you expect?” Zayn softly chuckles. 

“Me? I expected an abrupt, graceless bartender with a scraggly beard and yellow teeth, and the smell of sweat and stale cigarettes wherever he walked. Not you.”

Zayn is still fully aware of the hand caressing his face. But he doesn’t pull away, he can’t: Harry’s affable touch has him reeling with the fear of being lost without it.

“Not a witty man with the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen.” Harry’s voice is almost a whisper. When the proximity between them closes, he pulls his hand away from Zayn’s face. “You’re far too pretty to be hidden away behind a bar.”

Zayn feels like his face has been pressed in cold, icy snow as the warmth of Harry’s touch fades. He pulls his own fingers to sweep across the skin. “I couldn’t do anything other than be hidden away in here. I’ll stick to the shadows.”

A thought hits Zayn as he glances down to his cracked watch, and sees the handles creeping closer to the morning.

“Don’t… don’t you have to go home? Don’t you have someone to be with, a home to go to?”

“I have a home,” Harry says. He paints swirls with his pen down on the paper. “But I get lonely. I get really lonely.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know, Zayn.”

“You should be with your friends, celebrating, having fun…”

“I am with my friend, I thought we’d accomplished that,” Harry says. “I’m with you, I’m celebrating, I’m having fun.”

“I meant as in—”

“I know what you meant, Zayn. But I’m looking around and I don’t see many people here for you, and I’m not just going to abandon you, am I?”

“It’s not like I’m not used to it,” he mumbles.

The memory of all those Christmas’ and birthdays spent alone feel like a splinter in his chest that he willingly leans on, to pierce the skin and bleed. He curses, mutters something under his breath, and picks at a scar peeking out from behind the long sleeve of his shirt.

Harry waits until Zayn looks back up to him to speak. “Well, we’re going to have to change that.”

“What?” 

“Come to my house,” Harry says.

“What?” Zayn repeats, his tone morphing from one of confusion to surprise.

He sees an impression of hesitation in the lines of Harry’s forehead, but when he speaks his voice is as strong as the storm whipping through the streets outside.

“Come with me, to my place. Spend Christmas with u—with me,” Harry offers.

“Harry, I can’t just—”

“Where else are you going to go? What else are you going to do, just sit around here all day and do nothing? Be alone?”

Zayn sighs. A shift in the back room reminds him that they aren’t really alone. “My father, he’ll… he’ll…”

_He won’t even notice I’m gone._

Harry places a hand on Zayn’s thigh. And despite falling for the contact, despite wishing for it for most of the evening, he flinches away from the touch.

“Come with me tonight, then,” Harry says. “Just for tonight. So you don’t have to spend the start of Christmas all alone.”

“I don’t know.” Zayn suspires. 

Leaving the bar… it’s, it’s so risky for him. The possibilities of everything that could go wrong cloud his mind for a moment in bright, technicolour lights. If his father wakes up… The speakeasy isn’t even open for business tomorrow but… fuck, if his father demands for him and he’s not here, if he discovers Zayn may have potentially lost them business, that’s a bruised eye or a busted lip.

“What have you got to lose?”

 _Everything. Nothing_. “I don’t know.”

Zayn looks up to Harry, though he’s no longer sat on the barstool. He’s stood, slipping his jacket on and shoving his notebook into the pocket.

“I haven’t even got a coat,” Zayn says, embarrassed.

Harry pauses, standing still for a moment or so, before reaching over to drape his coat over Zayn’s shoulders.

Zayn freezes, unsure of what to do. He’s never owned a coat before, never worn one apart from the times he steals his father’s jacket for minutes at a time to unload new deliveries. His father’s coat is old, and holed, and rough with its decades of wear. It never was much comfortable, but it kept him warm enough.

But oh, this coat is smooth to the touch. And so… luxurious. Zayn, like most things, hasn’t had the privilege to feel anything like this, anything that feels like it fits him a treat, makes him feel good. And although he feels undeserving, like everything else—even the tattered shirt on his own back—he sinks into the fabric. It smells like the familiar scent of Harry’s aftershave, mixed with something comforting and floral. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong. But to Zayn, in that moment, it feels right.

“C’mon.” Harry pushes him out of his moment and ushers him to his feet. He downs the rest of his drink and wills Zayn to do the same. “It’s getting colder by the hour.”

The drink is warm sliding down Zayn’s throat. He grabs the bottle of whiskey and doesn’t give himself time to think, focusing on following Harry’s footsteps out of the speakeasy, up the stairs, into the blizzard in the streets. 

  


	2. change the pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: after the WWI, homophobia only existed in really small fragments of ways (things like old people who had been raised in older times and refused to break traditional values), because basically after the war, when the BOOM started, everyone just said 'fuck it' and went absolutely nuts and just partied and lived and fucked anyone they wanted because they were all so ecstatic that they had survived the war that they just didn't care anymore (until the start of the 1930's when the great depression began and people decided that homosexuality, amongst a plethora of other harmless things in life, were the reason for the GD because people scrambled to find what went wrong with America so they could begin implementing a false solution, and it started becoming a bad thing again--something that today we are still living in the repercussions of). 
> 
> So, any judgment or oppression that is experienced in this story is entirely based off an ableist or classist stand-point because those were still huge and completely disregarded issues from that time period.

  • • VIII • •

 

“You live in this place? This house is huge,” Zayn gapes.

His awed eyes stare on at the Victorian styled house. It’s white panelled walls, and wide windows, and extensive porch that circles the house, and the turret that stands tall that makes the place look like a mini castle. The snow covering the roof and the balcony seem all the more fairy-tale-like to him. The house itself sits on a small plot of land hundreds of yards away from the main streets, surrounded by trees and shrubs and flowers of all kinds—some that seem cropped and taken care of. Next to the house, down a bank, sits a halcyon river that flows gently into the forest. 

It’s perfect. It’s _so_ perfect. It’s everything he’s ever wanted in a home and everything he’s never had. His eyes peel from the grand exterior of it all only when Harry reaches the front porch and calls Zayn to follow him as he opens the door. Zayn jogs to catch up with him.

“This house is beautiful,” Zayn compliments.

Harry offers to take the coat, and Zayn begrudgingly slips out of it. The walk to Harry’s house seemed long and cold in the snow, and his hands are freezing red, along with his nose and ears. He claps them together and rubs to try and create some warmth. He slips his shoes off at the door and walks in.

The interior is just as lovely, just as homey as he suspected. Harry has a keen eye for fashion, Zayn thinks, looking around at the grand mirrors and the chairs and the wooden furniture representing the walls. And the chandelier, oh, how it twinkles under the light and catches Zayn’s eyes, like a moth drawing to a sparkling flame.

He understands now, how Harry could get lonely in a place like this, in a place built for a family. Zayn makes a joke in his head that he’ll ask to move in with him—a part of him shies at the thought.

Harry motions through a door a few steps ahead. “The fire should be on. You go warm yourself up. I’ll boil the kettle.” 

“You know, this house is lovely, but I must say it’s far too large for only you to live—” Zayn’s voice is cut short when he opens the door and sees someone sat on one of the many chairs in the room.

Her hair is short and dainty, dark brunette that shines in the dim lights of the living room. She’s wrapped in a black silk gown that contrasts her porcelain skin, sitting in a velvet brown chair. Eyes wide, lips parted, and as she looks to Zayn, startled, she stands to her feet to face him. A steaming cup is held between both of her palms, her bony fingers gripped tightly around the cup to capture the warmth—one of them bearing a single band of gold.

Zayn takes a step forward, but he pauses as he sees the alarm in her eyes.

“Hello,” she speaks, her voice as quiet as a mouse.

“Hello,” Zayn swallows.

“The kettle is boiling. If you don’t like the coffee, we have some—Helena.” Harry stops in his tracks. His face falls to one of surprise, as both Zayn and the woman look to him. “It’s late, I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I thought you would still be at work.”

“I came home early. It’s Christmas, after all.” She takes a sip from her cup.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I was waiting for you to come home,” she says. “I was worried.”

“I’m sorry, I—this, this is Zayn,” Harry introduces, gesturing towards Zayn. He feels the woman’s eyes back on him, but Zayn’s remain on Harry.

“Hello, Zayn,” she greets again.  

Zayn glances at her and back to Harry. “Hello, Helena.”

Zayn’s eyes never leave Harry’s, not even as Harry’s wander the room to look at everything but the two people staring at him, waiting for him to do something. To speak.

But he’s says nothing.

Zayn has a habit of not letting pieces of a puzzle fall into place before he understands the full picture. In his head, in hindsight, it makes sense now. It makes sense as he looks down at Harry’s hand and sees the matching gold ring screaming at him, telling him how much of a fool he’s been.

How did he not see it before? Harry must have taken it off and slipped it back on when Zayn wasn’t looking. He must have. In a life of dull grey, Zayn has eyes for anything peculiarly shiny and bold. He would have noticed something as gleaming as a wedding ring if he’d been presented with one. But he hasn’t. He never has. Certainly not from Harry.

There’s a pop inside of him. A bubble of pride; a switch of some false delusion he told himself was real. He hopes Harry will meet his eyes and tell him he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t. No, he’s finding the floor far too amusing to look away.

“Would you like to come sit down, Zayn? You look freezing,” she offers.

Staring at Harry for one second longer, he infers the small drips of guilt in his countenance. There’s a stinging in the top of his nose, like water has ran up it, and a wetness in his eyes that follows. He does his best to ignore it, to push it all away, to blink back in to clarity, which seems to have eluded him for a moment. He looks to Helena with a forced smile.

“I’d love to sit down.” He clears his throat when it cracks. “Thank you.”

“Come, have my seat. It’s the most direct to the fire and the warmest,” she offers 

“That’s very kind of you.”  

Zayn practically stumbles into the seat, grabbing the arm of the sofa for support. Helena sits on the edge of an armchair opposite him, with an eye that flickers over his entirety—like she’s trying to understand him. Who he is, where he comes from, and, he’s certain, what he’s doing in her house.

He picks at the edges of his nails. Now that he’s thinking about it, he doesn’t know why he’s even here. Acting like he knows Harry, when it’s clear he doesn’t. Harry’s mystery, his on-and-off vibe—it makes sense to him now. Zayn looks behind him to find Harry, but his frame is gone from the doorway. He puffs his cheeks nervously and turns back to Helena, who’s surveying him with a cocked head, as if he’s some unknown creature.

“Do you work with Harry?” she asks.

Zayn frowns. Work with Harry? Does he look like he works with Harry? Surely, his rag-like shirt and messy look would deter her from the notion. Is this situation familiar to her? Have there been others—did they work with Harry, too?

It passes his mind that it would be probably easier if Zayn told her he does work with Harry. If it would be easier for her to believe he’s just another co-worker. (Then his mind wanders too far, and he starts to think about all the others he may have brought back here to pass them off as co-workers, how many people have touched Harry’s thigh and sat on his sofa.)

It’ll probably be easier for Harry, he thinks, if he just says yes. But a type of spite resides on the corners of his tongue.

“No.”

“No, I didn’t think so. You don’t… you don’t look like the others.”

“Because I’m not rich?” Zayn nods his head at her, wide eyes, pierced lips, as if to say: ‘Yeah, I know’.

Helena’s brows softly raise. “Because you’re not a woman.”

Zayn hides his surprise behind a disgruntled, half-witted smile. “Does he bring many of his co-workers back here?”

She sips her tea. “No.”

A cumbersome silence ensues. Only the crackles of the open fire save them from an all-consuming silence. The rose and fern of the walls, the rococo frames of strangers, the ornate peace of the swelling room seems to be the only thing that relaxes him. To distract him from the eyes that insist on staring at him, despite how he wriggles in his seat.  

In the background, Zayn faintly distinguishes the whistling of the kettle. Harry’s rushed steps follow in suit only moments later. He carries a silver platter in his hand that balances two China cups, a serving of sugar and a small jug of milk.

“You, uh… you add the coffee, stir it, and then add the sugar, in that order. Milk, too, if you like milk, that is,” Harry explains, clearly on edge. He sets the platter down on a table between them all, and comes to sit on the other end of the sofa.

 “Thanks.” Zayn makes no move to take the drink. He sits awkwardly, wondering what the hell he was thinking when he thought this was a good idea.

“How was your day at the factory, darling?” Harry asks his wife.

“The usual. Tedious, boring, though the girls make it more fun,” Helena says to her husband.

“Anna said she would be around today. Have you seen her? How is she?”

“She’s wonderful. Waddling slightly but she’s fine. She demanded I cover all the sharp edges in the house, afraid she’d bump herself. I had to carry the coffee table into the hallway.”

“I’m not so sure that was a good idea, darling. Not with your arm. It’s still healing.”

“I think my arm agrees with you. It’s been sore ever since.”

“When is she due? I’m surprised she hasn’t popped by now.” Harry sips his tea.

 “Just after the New Year. I pray for the day to come so she can stop whining about how she can’t do trivial things, like pick up a pen she’s dropped or cook dinner for her husband without dropping a thousand plates.” She scoffs. “Although, it’s nice to see her glowing with something other than envy, for once.”

 Zayn sinks further into the chair, hoping the cushions will envelope him, and lets the couple act as if they normally would.

 He’s a wonton interloper here, in the plush vastness of a foreign home, hoping to be a part of a strange depth of emotion that evades him.

 He should leave. He should just get up and leave. It doesn’t matter if he makes himself look like a fool, he has to leave. His throat is closing, and his palms are sweating, and he just needs to leave.

 His feet are planted to the ground and he’s stood up straight before he realises that he’s moved. Though Harry looks to him confused and questioning, brows knitted, mouth paused in sentence, Helena looks complacent; expecting.

 “I… I should—I’m sorry for interrupting your evening. I shouldn’t have come here. Helena, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I should really go back home,” Zayn rambles quickly.

“What are you talking about, Zayn?” Harry asks. He follows Zayn in standing to his feet. “You can’t go home now.”

Zayn’s eyes plead with Harry’s. “I can’t stay here.”

“Of course, you can. No, of course you can,” Harry reassures. He turns to Helena. “Len, tell him he can stay.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” she says in a detached voice. Her tone is void of any emotion that would will him to stay, except for the small quirks of her lips—though, Zayn doubts that is for his benefit. “There’s a spare room upstairs.”

“And it’s far too late for you to walk home now. And in the middle of a blizzard? Don’t be ridiculous, Zayn. Stay, please.” Harry’s eyes are hopeful, prosperous.

Zayn wants to say no, he wants to open the door and run into the snow and scream. But he doesn’t. His eyes remain locked on Harry’s, and—oh, how can he say no to those eyes? To those beguiling eyes that make a stressed hand run through the strands of his hair.

“Okay,” Zayn whispers. “Okay, but I don’t want to be a burden. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

“It’s Christmas tomorrow. You have to—”

“Harry, you’re overwhelming him. The poor boy is shaking.” Helena sets her tea down, intertwines her hand with his, and pulls him back to give Zayn some space.

“Yes, of course,” Harry mumbles. His eyes never leave Zayn.

“It’s getting late, we should go to bed. I have some spare sheets in the closet upstairs, I’ll go get them for you,” Helena says.

“Thank you,” Zayn replies, but she’s already gone from the room.

“Zayn—”

“Do you mind making my drink? I don’t want to mess it up,” Zayn interrupts him.

He doesn’t want to hear what Harry has to say. Not now. Not when the pulse of his heart is a drum in his ears and his fingers ache from how tightly they’re being clasped together.

“Sure.” He stirs a spoon around a cup of hot water and milk. “Sugar?”  

“Two. Two sugars.”

Harry hands Zayn the cup hesitantly, as if trying not to hurt him, though it burns his tongue as he sips too soon. He welcomes it: the burn. It gives him something else to think about other than how much of a disaster this situation is becoming.

“She seems lovely, your wife.”

“She’s—Perhaps she is, once you get to know her. Otherwise she can be quite indifferent,” Harry says. “How is your coffee?”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m sorry, Zayn.”  

“For what?”

Harry’s eyes ghost his. “For hurting you.”

A stone falls from the  borders that surround Zayn’s chest. It falls, flat and heavy, into the pit of his stomach.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“For lying to you, then.”

“People lie all the time,” Zayn says. “Reporters lie about the weather, the president lies about world peace, magicians lie about magic.”

“People don’t normally lie to their friends.”

“Is that what I am, a friend?” Zayn asks.

“Yes, you know I am,” Harry argues back gently. 

“I’ve never had a friend. Not a true one, at that.”

“Zayn—”

“I’m exhausted, Harry. It’s been a long day. I’d like to go to bed, if that’s okay.”

It looks as if Harry is going to say something, but his parted mouth falls shut before he does. He nods, places his cup down, and beckons Zayn to follow him as he walks up the staircase. The room behind them falls dark.

He follows Harry to an open door on the other side of the hallway, where they find Helena lying a sheet on a bed placed in the middle of the room. A lamp sits on the bedside table to keep the shadows away, though the light of the moon shines in through the exposed windows.

“There’s extra blankets underneath the bed, if you get too cold,” Helena says, as the floorboards beneath them creak with their arrival.

“Thank you. Both of you. The couch would have sufficed,” Zayn says, quiet. A gentle breeze of that anxious feeling sways through him.

“Don’t be silly. This room never gets any good use. I’m sure it’ll be thrilled to have you,” Helena says. “I’m going to visit the restroom. I’ll see you in bed, Harry.”

She leaves the room after kissing her husband on the cheek, with a subtle glance at Zayn.  The whining of the floorboards underneath her feet leave a silence behind; an uncomfortable silence that makes Zayn feel as if he’s choking.

As the light of the moon fades from the room, as Zayn’s tongue forms the words he wants to speak but has yet to say, Harry advances towards him. It takes two heavy steps, not even long enough to give Zayn time to take a breath, before his back is being pushed to the white-washed walls, and his eyes are centimetres away from the smaragdine halo of Harry’s. His one hand is pressed against Harry’s chest; the other held down against the wall, with Harry’s determined fingers pinning his wrist so he can’t move it.

“Harry,” Zayn whispers.

“Zayn,” Harry replies, almost as breathless as him.

They share an aching moment of silence. A string within Zayn is pulled, and he jolts with it.

“Why didn’t tell me you were married?”

“I never tell anyone I’m married.”

“If I’d have known…”

“You what? You wouldn’t have spoken to me? Looked at me? Smiled at me?” He scoffs in a light gust of breath.

“I wouldn’t have come here. This isn’t right, Harry. You have a family,” Zayn argues.  

He’s cautious of keeping his voice low, so Helena doesn’t hear. He doesn’t know this house, he doesn’t know how thin these walls are, he doesn’t know how many similar conversations they’ve had to keep secret.

“I have a wife.”

“Who is your family.”

“And you have no one,” Harry bites back.

There’s a hardness in Harry’s eyes now, Zayn sees. It makes Zayn rest his head against the wall, so it’s further away from him. So he doesn’t feel Harry’s breath as warm on his cheeks, or feel so inundated by their dangerous proximity. “That’s not fair.”

“What does this change? What does you knowing I’m married change?”

“Everything. It changes everything, Harry,” Zayn hisses at him, unable to resist the anger he feels surging through him. “You called me pretty. You tried to _kiss me_. You sat in that speakeasy, flirting with me, letting me flirt with you like a complete fool, knowing damn well you were going to come home to a wife and a nice, warm bed. You’ve humiliated your wife. You’ve humiliated me. How selfish can you be?”

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I know, I know. I was trying to—It doesn’t seem like it, but I was trying to do something nice. Selfish but nice, something that could benefit everyone. But, there’s… Zayn, there’s just something—”

“There’s something about me, I know. You told me.” Zayn rolls his eyes. A chill creeps up his spine from the cold seeping from the wall. At least, he thinks it’s the wall. 

“I’m sorry. Zayn, I’m—I’ve hurt you, I know. I know that. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. But I couldn’t let you stay there alone, not on Christmas of all days. I wanted you here, with me. I want you here,” Harry confesses.

Harry’s sincerity is not lost on him, but Zayn scoffs in response. The walled security around his heart pulls out and aims their tommy guns, awaiting the order to attack.

“Your wife doesn’t like me.”

 “She doesn’t like anyone. At times, I question whether she likes me.”

“Then, she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you, Zayn. She doesn’t even know you.” Harry raises his finger to sweep a piece of Zayn’s long hair back around his ear as it falls.

 Zayn knows he should reject the touch, but he doesn’t. He stays dead still—for a moment, even his heart follows suit. 

“I know she does,” Zayn says, stubbornly.

“You couldn’t possibly know that.”

“I do.” Everyone hates me. “Besides, I’ve seen the way she looks at me. Like I’m repulsive, like I’m dirtying upholstery, like I’m dragging filth on the floor behind me. I’m not hurt by it, I expect as much now. But I know when I’m not welcome.”

“I don’t look at you like that, do I? I don’t think you’re repulsive, I don’t think you’re dirty. I don’t hate you, Zayn.” Harry says, soft, velvet-like. He strokes Zayn’s cheek. “Do you think I hate you?”

Harry’s voice remains strong in its candour, but Zayn can’t untie his tongue. His eyes are focused on the way Harry’s tongue rolls and his lips pucker with each word. That’s where his eyes are, down where they shouldn’t be, because he’s too afraid to look up. Instead, he shakes his head.

“You’re right, I don’t.” His arm falls from Zayn’s cheek down to his waist. Harry’s lips are a little closer, a little more blazing as he speaks. “I am, actually, very fond of you. Fonder than I should be, I think. It’s strange for me.”

 “I should go.” Even in his whisper, Zayn’s voice seems too loud and turbulent to his ears. Too vulnerable.

“Out into the middle of a blizzard?”

“Harry—”

Zayn tries to slip away from his grasp. For a trice, he thinks he’s broke free. But instead, Harry pulls Zayn closer to him, so their bodies are flush to one another, and he can feel the toned muscles under Harry’s thin dress shirt, and the warmth of his palms on Zayn’s back that sends shivers to every other cold part of his body.

They’re close; so close that if Zayn moved forward in any way, and Harry took his fingers under Zayn’s chin to arch his lips, they’d fall into a kiss.

“I don’t give a damn if Helena wants you here or not,” Harry begins, eyes locked with his. Zayn is almost certain he can taste the sweet gin still on Harry’s breath. “I want you here. Zayn, I want you here. It’s my house, my word goes.”

“Harry, your wife is—”

“I want you here. So you will stay here,  sleep in this bed, and you will wake up and spend Christmas with us tomorrow. You’re welcome to eat dinner with us at our dining table, and you will be welcome to stay tomorrow night, too. You are welcome to stay however long you want. And no one will object, because this is my house, and that is my rule. Is the picture clear enough for you?”

Zayn parts his mouth to object, enough for Harry to know that whatever he’s going to say wouldn’t sway in his favour. He parts his mouth to object, he does. But he realises it’s a fruitless endeavour when Harry’s hold on his waist tightens and his fingers dig into his hip.

“Is that clear enough for you, Zayn?” he repeats.

Zayn swallows and nods his head to subdue. “Yes, Harry.”

“Good.”

Harry leans forward, so their heads touch together. Zayn’s eyes close for a moment to gather himself, to pick himself back up from the floor he seems to be melting on like a pool of wax, before he opens them again. Harry is still staring at him. Still staring.

Zayn takes the fabric underneath his hand into his grip, tightening the shirt against the lineation of Harry’s sinewy shoulders. His mouth falls further apart. “Why are you this close to me, Harry?”

“Because I want to be.”

“Because I’m pretty?”

“Shatteringly so.” Harry smiles, an affection in the lines of his lips, the corners of his mouth, that Zayn denies.

They stay like that for a minute, two, three—until Harry’s smile has quietened, and his lips are falling—slow, painstakingly slow—towards him.  

Zayn savours the moment, urges himself to push back. And for a second where his better judgment slips, where his moral compass leads him astray, he does; enough to find the soft skin of his cheek attached to Harry’s own. But it’s the gentle skim of Harry’s lips on his that makes the moment fall back in to place: makes the fatal blow of reality crash into him like a meteorite, and he’s stuttering in the aftermath.  

When he falls away from Harry, he almost expects the room to be on fire. And if it isn’t for the augmented light of the lamp splaying their shadows across the dusty floor, too yellow to see the flames, he’d believe it was all burning.

“Harry.” He sighs. “Your wife is in the next room.”

“I am aware.”

“You’re married.”  

“I am aware of that, too.”

“Then why are you with me now, instead of her?”  

Harry shrugs. “Magnitude.”

“Magnitude.” Zayn blows out a whispering laugh; a whistle in the gentle wind outside. 

A thought speaks to Zayn, as his heart stammers from Harry’s touch. It’s a thought that revolts him, twists his chest, and makes his mouth taste like it’s full of blood.

He thinks of tonight; Helena’s words, and her complete lack of surprise or indication that she’s upset; how her calmness shocked him more than anyone else in the room. He thinks to how she looked at him, with so little care, like she knew he wouldn’t be around long enough for her to care.

He thinks to Harry’s indifference and how it seems so misplaced. He thinks about the night before this, where Zayn’s knees brushed with Harry’s and he wished, only for a brief moment, that he could lie between them at night.

And then, he thinks further than himself, to every other night, to every other soul Harry has had pushed against a wall. To his wife’s unwitting consent to it all; to every other woman or man he’s had cornered in the creaks of his floors and the crevices of his chair. He thinks to all the others before him; he thinks to all those that might be next. He thinks about how Harry thought his wife wouldn’t be home, how easy it would have been to slip Zayn in and out of his house before she even knew.

Zayn thinks about how it’s all so… routine, practised, and perfect. He thinks about now, and how much this moment will matter in the morning.

God, Zayn wishes the hope in his veins would just fucking die, but it doesn’t. And it makes him feel small, terminable by a boot, interchangeable by anyone with a pair of eyes and a few grabbing hands. It makes him feel sick. It makes him fucking chuckle.

“What’s wrong? What’s funny?” Harry asks, frowning.

His voice is too high to be a whisper, but low enough for Helena to remain unwitting to their moment, Zayn is sure. He may not know this house, but Harry does: he knows how thin the walls are, he knows what he can get away with.

“You know, the only magnets I see around here are the matching handcuffs you two wear,” Zayn says, a type of loss in his face. Harry raises his hand to stroke his cheek, but Zayn moves away before it can touch him. Surprisingly, when Zayn pushes his body away from him, Harry lets go. “I think you should go to your wife, Harry. I can tuck myself in.” 

“What did I do?”

“Nothing, Harry. Goodnight.”

Zayn turns his back to Harry and advances towards the bed. He strips of his shirt and drops it on the bottom of the bed and tries to suppress the smirk he knows is wrong, when Harry lets out the quietest gasp from behind him.

Harry lingers for a moment, whilst Zayn just stands with his back to him, twiddling his fingers. 

“Goodnight, Zayn.”

Harry’s heavy boots against the floorboards, the creaking of the door as it closes behind him. And then, Zayn is left in the silence of night.

 

• • IX • •

 

Harry doesn’t sleep. Not a single wink.

He’s sure, at some point in the night, he hears Zayn’s snores from the room next to theirs—only soft snores, like Zayn’s mouth is parted just enough for the whistle of his breaths to escape through, but the house is so quiet that he can hear.

He hears the songbirds singing just outside the balcony window, and his wife’s deep breaths as he lays beside her. He hears the stutter of Mr. Melbrar’s motor pass at a time too early for anyone to leave the house. He lays and watches dusk move into dawn, watches as the ephemeral colours of the sunrise come to superimpose the bleakness of the room.

Downstairs, the telephone rings. Harry shuffles out of the bed with haste, afraid that it will wake up Zayn or Helena if it rings for too long. The telephone stops and begins again before his cold feet reach the kitchen.

Harry curses; there’s only one person he knows, who’s impatience would lead them to act this way, and Harry is in no mood to talk to him.

He picks the telephone up nevertheless, knowing he’ll get busted for it at work if he doesn’t.

“Hello?”

“Limey, do you ever pick up the phone?” His boss says from the other end of the line.  

“I just did.”

“Well, why didn’t you answer it the first time?”

“I was in bed, sir.”  

“This late? It’s 11am.”

“It’s Christmas,” Harry says. “I’m allowed to sleep in, am I not?”

“You’re a hard worker, I suppose you are.” His boss hums. There’s a short pause; Harry suspects he’s smoking. “Well, I can’t say much to object. I woke only an hour ago. Too much juice last night, feels like a brick is on my head. But, you know what they say: the best cure for a hangover is whiskey. Are you enjoying your holiday, Harry?”

 _No, It’s fucking horrible,_ Harry thinks.

His wife is refusing to hold a conversation with him, and doing that terrifying thing she does where she pretends everything is perfect, and he knows there’s some scheme being plotted in her head. And Zayn is sleeping in the room next to theirs, probably thinking he’s messing everything up but, per usual, it’s all Harry’s fault.

It’s Harry that is to blame, for not being able to control himself or his desires. It’s Harry’s fault for being too sated by a pair of caramel-ruby eyes that aren’t his, to even think for a moment about regretting any of it. It’s all Harry’s fault, and the tension between everyone in the house is tangible enough to cut with a knife, and he’s got this constant feeling in his chest like he can’t take a breath deep enough to satisfy his lungs.

But how does he explain that to someone who doesn’t care enough to wrap their mind around it all? How does he explain that to someone when he doesn’t even know how to understand it, either? Harry doesn’t think he even attempts to.

Is he enjoying his _fucking_ holiday?

“Yes, sir. You?”

The old man grumbles. “I’m not used to spending this much time around my family. I thought a leave from work would alleviate me from a headache, but I was wrong. My wife never sits down, there’s people in and out the house constantly, always busy, and the children won’t stop arguing.”

At 11am in the morning, he hears the popping of a bottle of whiskey on the other side of the line.  

“Andrew Jr will be starting work soon, if I have my way, which I always do. Sixteen years old is too late to start work, if you ask me. I started on construction sites when I was old enough to pick up a hammer. They’ve got it lucky. But, you’ll understand that soon. I’m sure it won’t be long now until you have your own—”

“I don’t mean offence, sir, but I’d rather drop the small talk and get to why you’ve called?” Harry interrupts him. 

A pause. “All right. I was just ringing to ask if you were still on board with that job I asked you to do on the side.”

Harry bites his lip. “Yes, sir. I am.”

“It’s been two months, I haven’t heard anything from you.”

“There’s nothing to be told. It’s flat news at the moment.”

Harry thinks he hears the floorboards above his head creak, but he goes back to paying attention to his conversation. 

“Good,” Boss crackles through the line. “You tell me if there’s anything new on it, you let me know. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the holidays.” 

“You want me to work over the holidays?” _The man has finally gone mad,_ Harry thinks. 

“Yes. If you’re required to do so.”

He sighs. “Sir, there won’t be anything. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” 

“I need something, Styles.” 

“The Christmas party was something.”

“Something _more_. Hoyden is becoming suspicious, keeps asking about it. He wants to be in on it, I think. Jealous fucker.”  

Harry grits his jaw. “Have you told him?”

 His Boss grunts down the phone. “God, no. He wouldn’t get off my tail about it if I did.” 

“Are you going to tell him?”

“This is just between you and I, Styles,” he reassures.

“I’d like to keep it that way, sir.” 

“I would, too, very much. I’m counting on you, Styles. If you succeed in this, I’ll think about another promotion. Consider it a reward for your hard work. But get this job done first.”

“I will, sir.”

“Have a good New Year with your family, Styles. I’ll see you in January.”

“Thank you. Happy new year, sir.”

Harry balances the phone back down on the stand as the line cuts off.

He rolls his fingers over his eyes, his forehead, hoping it’ll relieve some of the tension residing there. A creak in the floorboards behind him pauses his deep sigh.

When he turns around, Zayn is stood in the doorframe of the kitchen. Suspenders around his thighs, shirt unbuttoned, chest on display. Harry tries not to stare at the line of hair growing down and disappearing behind the belt of his trousers. When he realises he’s staring at Zayn’s crotch, and Zayn is standing there like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, Harry smiles. 

“Zayn,” he greets with a light tone. 

He jgrins. “Who was that?”

“Aren’t you nosy,” Harry teases, but gives him no answer. He turns around to fill the kettle with water. “You know, I got this imported from Britain, the kettle. I couldn’t find one when I first got here, not like the ones back home. Cost a fortune but it was worth it. Despite how trivial it is, it gives me a sense of home. Do you like tea, Zayn?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever tried tea,” Zayn confesses, laughing with Harry’s dramatic expression.

“You’ve never tried tea?”

“No, Harry.”

“I’ll make you a cup, in the finest China I have.” He puts the kettle on the stove, turning the heat on. His eyes find Zayn. “You don’t have to stand in the doorway. Come sit down at the table.”

Hesitantly, like he’s afraid of breaking something, he takes a seat. “You didn’t answer my question.”  

“What was that?” 

“Who were you on the phone to?” Zayn asks.

“Oh, it was just Boss.” He waves off, before reiterating. “My boss, his name is Boss—Mr. Boss.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s…”

“Fitting, I know.” He takes a seat the opposite side of Zayn.

“It sounded tense, the conversation.”

“He wants me to work over the holidays. I mean, the point of a holiday is that it’s a holiday.” Harry scoffs. He turns around and looks to Zayn, who’s shuffling his fingers through the edge of his sleeves awkwardly. When he realises Harry is staring at him, he grabs the edges of his shirt and pulls them together. “Call it an extended assignment.”

“You look stressed,” Zayn tells him.

“I am.” He sighs. “Why are you up so early?”

“The phone woke me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Zayn says with a yawn. “I usually don’t wake up this late. In fact, I don’t think I even sleep until this time of the day.” 

“Up all night with the speakeasy?” Harry asks.

“That’s my life.” Zayn huffs out this type of laugh that Harry can’t distinguish. As he watches, a cognisance—that gives Zayn this carefreeness that Harry hasn’t seen on him before—passes over him. “Oh. Merry Christmas, Harry.”

He smiles; Harry truly smiles, delightfully, smiles. “Merry Christmas, Zayn.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever celebrated Christmas, not honestly,” Zayn says, his lips turning thin.   

They sit in silence. Zayn doesn’t seem to mind, but time goes excruciatingly slow for Harry. He rests his palms on the side, leaning against the table away from Zayn, and stares at the kettle like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it, like it’s so fascinating to him. He practically leaps for it when it begins to whistle, forgetting in a daydream that it’s boiling hot.

He drops it back on to the stove with a clang against the metal, cursing as his hand stings. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Hey.” He feels Zayn’s cold fingers ghost across his ribs, as he comes to stand beside him. 

Zayn takes Harry’s hand in his own to assess the damage without hesitation. It’s Harry that gasps at the touch, at the turn of the tables, at how thoughtless Zayn's need to help him is.

Zayn’s cold hands help cool his burn, but his skin still feels like fire. Harry thinks it would feel that way even if he hadn’t burnt himself, even if it was just the simple connection of their skin. He’d still be burning.

Zayn takes Harry’s hand under the cold faucet and balances it under the icy gush of water, but he hisses and pulls away when the pain shocks him. Zayn lets go of his hand. 

“I’m sorry.” Zayn’s eyes flash with alarm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t hurt me, Zayn.” He sighs. “The water did. And the kettle. You’re helping me.”

Harry winds his hand back into the reluctant fingers of Zayn. With a momentary pause, Zayn pushes Harry’s hand under the water—so gently, so delicately. 

Harry feels the intake of breath at Zayn's surprise when he rests his spare arm around the top half of his torso and pulls them closer. He feels the warmth of Zayn’s body radiating against his bare chest, the indentation of his bones so close to the surface of his skin. He does his best not to sigh in content.

“I think your hand will be okay now,” Zayn says quietly after they’ve stood for minutes—seconds, it feels to Harry—over the sink. A heavy breath follows his words, like it’s being knocked out of him.  

Zayn twists the faucet off and turns in Harry’s hold. They’re close enough for Harry to feel Zayn’s warm and quickened breaths pass over his shoulders. Their hands are still enclosed in one another’s palm; Zayn clasps his fingers tighter around Harry’s when he squeezes him—even impossibly—closer, and although it hurts against his burn Harry makes no complaint.

“Harry,” Zayn whispers. He lifts his head so their eyes meet, so their noses almost brush, so their lips are so close they could tear apart the world with just one brush.

“Zayn,” Harry replies, just as quiet. 

“I feel like you’re keeping me afloat, here.” Zayn breaths out a laugh.

Harry slinks the arm wound around Zayn’s waist along his back, up his shoulder, and up the side of his neck. Up his cheek; up his warm, flushing cheek. There’s no pressure of Harry’s hand holding Zayn so close to him now, but he stays there still in the embrace. 

A gentle sweep of an unfamiliar notion passes through Zayn’s eyes as Harry stares at him: almost like they turn from bright hazel to shining gold and back again in an instant. Passively, Harry shakes his head.

“I’ll keep you here all day, if you keep looking at me like that.”

His words are enough for Zayn to cower away from his gaze, but not enough to feel comfortable in the cold loss of Harry’s touch, not enough for him to move away. He tucks his head down, his hair tickling Harry’s neck. Harry doesn’t remember when Zayn’s other hand came down to grip his hip, but he wills it to stay there. 

The moment seems perfect to Harry—almost too perfect—and only interrupted by the hollow grumble of Zayn’s belly.

Harry chuckles, and he feels Zayn’s cheeks puff in a smile against his chest. He doesn’t want to move, especially when Zayn slips his hand from Harry’s and brings it to outline the ink drawing on his chest. He doesn’t want to move away, but he knows their moment has come to an end—fuck, the blow that rattles his rib cage with realisation; with reality.

“Breakfast?” Harry asks. He takes both of Zayn’s palms and holds them out in front of him and slowly, almost painfully, lets them go.

“Oh…” Zayn’s hands immediately cross against his chest. “You don’t have to.”

“You’re hungry and you’re a guest—a friend—of course I have to,” Harry says.

“You know, I’m… I’m really not that hungry.”

Harry hums. “And you’re really not that great of a liar.”

Zayn’s shoulders shrug, like he’s an awkward child been caught. “I don’t usually eat breakfast.” 

“Why not? They say it’s the most important meal of the day.”  

Whilst Harry busies himself with grabbing two cups and filling them with water and a teabag, Zayn’s weary eyes supervising him the whole time, he stays silent.

“Well?” Harry pushes, stirring the cups with a small spoon. He glances at Zayn, who stands there rigid, eyes to the ground, hands wound around his bony frame, his bottom lip taken between his teeth. With brows tense, Harry takes a shot in the dark. “ You don’t get to eat?”

“I do. Little bits here and there. There’s not much food in a speakeasy, and even less in a lower-class household.” 

Harry flushes his fingers against the warmth of Zayn’s cheek. His head turns fast, flinching away from the touch this time, but his eyes linger on Harry’s. “A spoon of honey with your tea?”

“Honey with tea?” He offers Harry this vulnerable smile, his voice as fragile as the China Harry is holding in his hand.

“Takes away the bitter taste tea can sometimes have,” he explains. He takes the jar of honey from the shelf above the stove, adds a spoon to each cup, and stirs. He hands one over to Zayn. “Here. That should warm you up.”

He takes the cup with thanks. “I think you’re the one who needs warming up. Where’s your shirt?”

Harry looks down to the pink, fading scars littered across his skin and the ripples of his abs over his torso. His eyes meet Zayn’s again, a cocky flicker on his lips. “You don’t like my body?”

Zayn swallows, eyes wide. He hides behind his cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Good,” he says, “otherwise, I’d have to go put a shirt on.”  

“And why haven’t you got a shirt on?” The _lovely_ voice of Helena interrupts their moment. She enters through the hallway and jumps straight for Harry’s tea. He lets her take it. “It’s freezing outside, lover. Are you mad?”

“Absolutely. I married you,” he grumbles, grabbing another cup to make more tea.

“Well, you’re stuck with me now.” She smiles in this bitter-sweet way that, in that moment, makes her seem so cruel. But then she looks to Zayn, almost as if she didn’t realise he was there, with a pair of widened eyes and innocent lips. “Oh. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Helena,” he says tentatively. He shifts the cup in his hands 

“Is it still snowing?” she asks.

“No, love. But it’s still cold.”

“And yet, you wander the house half-naked.”  

“I don’t feel the cold anymore,” Harry says. “You know that.” 

“Oh, the war did wonders on you,” she jokes, though there’s no laugh and her tone is flat. There’s no laugh from anyone.

Harry knows she’s joking, in her pathetic, half-attempt way she always does. She’s his wife, of course he knows. But, by the cumbersome wave that flushes off of Zayn, Harry knows his wife’s inherently un-amusing humour has gone over his head. He turns to Zayn to give him an assuring smile, and his shoulders fall in their tense hold. Harry picks up his new cup of tea and turns to them both.

“Did you sleep well?” Zayn asks Helena.

“Quite, once I fell to sleep,” she responds. “How about you, darling?”

Harry shrugs, sipping his tea. “Fine. It was broken sleep, but it was fine,” he lies.

 Zayn gives him this look that Harry only notices in a quick glance, an expression that lets him know he's detected the fiction on his tongue. And it baffles him. How did he know Harry was lying? Has he let that much on? Harry takes a second to peer over at Zayn, and sees these colours he didn’t know existed before. A delicate, blueish-gold. A deep reddish-crimson.

He glances to Helena—black and white.

A chord inside Harry becomes more defined, more real, more hued. He grins behind the fine china of his cup.

“Oh, excuse my manners. It’s that day again, isn’t it? Christmas. Merry Christmas, Harry, my love.” She smiles at him, strokes his arm as she advances towards him.

They raise their cups in the air and clink them carefully together. She leans in to kiss him, but Harry moves back. And when she pulls back, too, looking confused and offended, Harry motions with a subtle tilt of his head to Zayn.

Under her breath, she sighs and plasters a false smile on. When she speaks her voice is strained, like she’s sucked on a lemon.

“And Merry Christmas, to you.” She motions to him.

“Zayn,” Harry adds.

“Zayn,” she says quickly, “Merry Christmas, Zayn.”

 _At least she’s trying_ , Harry thinks.

“Thank you.” Zayn raises his cup in the air, though he’s too far away from either of them to reach. Harry raises his cup in the air again, and Helena follows begrudgingly after. “Merry Christmas.”

Helena draws her finger underneath Harry’s jaw and moves his head in her direction, so she can kiss him. When their lips attach, and Helena closes her eyes, Harry keeps his wide open, staring at Zayn.  

Zayn stares back at him with a tense jaw, veins protruding in his neck. But he still smiles. It looks like it’s physically hurting him to watch, but he smiles.

Harry cuts their kiss short. Forgive him for not wanting to kiss his wife, when he knows she’s only doing it to gain some of the dominance over him she thinks she’s lost, to remind Zayn of the place she thinks he deserves to be in, to play in to her little show and use them both.

“I think you should get started on dinner, don’t you? It’s already almost noon,” Harry says, as he pulls away.  

“Yes, of course. I should have started hours ago. We’ll be having dinner later than we usually do.” Her lips twitch, but it’s not enough to become a smile. “I hope that’s not a problem.” 

“Of course not, darling,” Harry assures. “Besides, we’ll need a little more food this year, there’s three of us.”

Helena pierces her lips. She glances Zayn’s way, and back to Harry. “He’s staying for dinner?” Her voice is quiet when she speaks, but Harry knows Zayn still heard. 

“I can go,” Zayn suggest. He places his cup down on the counter. “I’ve more than overstayed my welcome.” 

“I’d say so,” Helena whispers under her breath. Harry offers her a glare, and her eyes move to the floor.

“I told you, Zayn, you are more than welcome here,” Harry says. Their eyes meet. “Truth be told, it gets lonely here on Christmas, being it just the two of us, and all. Your company is a pleasure.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” Zayn replies. 

“Harry and I have this tradition—”

“Nonsense, Helena,” he interrupts her. “It’s hardly tradition.”

“We do it every year.”

“Because there is normally only the two of us,” he explains to Zayn, whilst side-eying Helena. Warning her. “Now there’s three of us.”

“I truly don’t want to intrude, Harry,” Zayn says, his voice soft, eyes genuine.

“You’re not intruding. You are more than welcome.” Harry glances back to Helena, who’s annoyed countenance seems to only amuse him at the time. “Darling, mind doing us some toast? We’re famished.” 

“I—” 

“Come on, we’ll go into the living room whilst Helena begins preparing dinner.” Harry gives Zayn’s tea back to him, shaking his head, and rests his arm across Zayn’s shoulder as they walk out.

 

• • X • •

  

Zayn doesn’t think he’s seen this much food before.

Pans and plates filled with roasted vegetables, cheeses, potato, gravy, beans, soup, and some food combinations Zayn has never even seen before. And the dripping, juicy turkey sat in the middle of the table that’s had Zayn’s mouth salivating since early afternoon, when he first smelt it cooking in the oven; since Harry commented on it, too. 

Zayn thinks there’s enough here to feed us for a week. His eyes ogle as he stares down at it all. The grumbles his stomach make from being so empty aren’t something that’s unfamiliar to Zayn. But now, with all this food laid out before him, the smells mixing together so deliciously, his hunger sets in deep, so deep it hurts. He’s absolutely starving, and he thinks he has been for a while.

 _This_ , Zayn thinks, with a soft smile, _this is luxury._  

“What are you smiling about?” Harry asks, coming to stand beside him. 

“Nothing, I just… I’ve never had this before,” Zayn says, voice quiet. 

“You mean, dinner? Or a meal with other people? Perhaps, even a true Christmas?”

“All of them,” Zayn says, nodding his head. “All of them.”

Harry gives him a rueful smile. His hand claps Zayn on the back, and Zayn has to take a deep breath. “Well, this will be your first. Come on, I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

“Ravenous.”

Though he wants to jump to the dining table and eat as much as he can fit in his tiny stomach, he suppresses the urge. Zayn wasn’t ever taught much about table manners, or any manners at all for that, but he’s learnt certain tricks from the strangers he’d watch as a child.

Couples sitting tables outside in the summer for lunch, watching to find where the eyes go, what the mouth says, which hand the fork goes in and which one the knife; workers, who would meet up for dinner in the evenings, prodding and picking their cutlery with delicacy, never clanging the metal against the glass plates; friends in the night, who raise toasts with their glasses of wine and their tumblers of whiskey, how their hands would fiddle with the glasses in a rig way Zayn was never taught. 

He’s never had any use for these tricks, not until now. He’s never had to act courteous and polite to anyone, until now.

He sits down at the table, careful to not let the chairs screech against the wooden floor. He sits at the end of the table, Helena in front of him at the opposite end, while Harry positions himself at the length of the table between the two.

Zayn doesn’t know why he notices such small and meagre tributes, like the way Harry’s chair is closer to him than it is to his wife; like the way Harry offers to fill Zayn’s plate first and not his wife’s, like the way he pours Zayn’s wine in his flute before anyone else’s, but he does. And he thinks, as he wisps his eyes over to Helena for a fleeting moment and notices the dark presence of frustration in her deepened brows, she notices, too.

“Thank you, Harry,” Zayn says, as his plateau passed back over to him, the entire piece of china filled with an assortment of food. There’s so much food that he can’t see any of the original floral design that brandishes the plate.

“That’s quite alright, Zayn,” Harry replies. “Just eat what you want, what you can. If you want more, you can help yourself.”

“We still have to give some to the neighbours,” Helena objects, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“They will be plenty left over for them, even if we stuff ourselves like bears tonight,” Harry says. “Your plate, darling.” 

Helena hands over her plate, rolling her eyes. By the time his eyes refocus on Harry, he’s filled his plate with food, too. He has this small grin of satisfaction balancing on his lips, and when he looks to Zayn he can’t help but smile back in gratitude.

Harry picks up his glass, and they follow in suit. “To a wonderful dinner—thank you, darling, it looks lovely—and to a merry, merry day.”

Harry and his wife share a smile and clink their glasses. Some minuscule facet within Zayn soaks itself in jealousy. But when Harry turns to him and he has the same smile, the same eyes that glimmer in the candles set across the table, when he realises Harry’s smile is possibly even wider as he looks to him, that spark of resentment is pinched out.

“To new friends,” he begins, and the gestures to Zayn, “and happiness.”

Zayn nods and brings the glass of wine to his lips, and they all put down their glasses. Harry makes this moaning sound that makes Zayn feel sensitive in places he shouldn’t.

“This is our last bottle, I think,” Harry says, assessing the bottle. “And our best tasting.”

“And we’re wasting it now,” Helena repines in a low voice.

Zayn knows she intends for no one to hear—by her arching brows and her cheeks pink-pinched when she realises they’ve heard, as she gazes down and shuffles her food around with her fork— but they do. Zayn hears, and Harry’s tightening fists around the bottle and the edge of the tablecloth assure Zayn he has, too. They both hear it loud and clear, like Helena screamed the words in his ears and it lingers there in an echo. He feels the familiar lump of that indescribable anxious feeling in his throat, and he deeply inhales. 

“Do you like it, Zayn?” Harry asks through a strained grin. 

“Yes, it’s uh… it’s lovely, thank you,” he says.

“Right. Well, I think it’s time we stuff our faces.” Harry picks up his knife and fork.

But Zayn only looks down at his with perplexity in the lines of his forehead. Only once before, in his entire life, has Zayn used a knife and a fork, and he doesn’t think he got it right back then.

In this moment, he realises all those years of watching people use cutlery didn’t seem as far perturbing as actually using them. He stares at them like they’re alien; to him, they are. He looks to Harry’s hands to assess what he should do and follows him in picking up the fork in his right hand and the knife in his left. He fiddles with them between his fingers, surveying them, trying to find a way to hold them that doesn’t feel awkward in his grip.

“Are you alright, Zayn?” Harry asks in a low voice. 

Zayn looks up, surprised. Oh, I…” He looks to Helena before he speaks and decides to divert the situation when he sees the quiet frustration gleaming across her eyes underneath the candlelight. “I’m—I’m fine.”

Harry leans closer to him—not that it makes any difference because they’re all sat so close together they can hear every word one of them speaks, each breath that’s heavier than a feather, but Zayn likes to think it’s for his benefit.

Harry lifts his hand up slightly, so Zayn can see the way the silver sits in his palms. “You turn the fork the other way around and put your index finger over the top to balance it,” he explains, poking where his finger sits on the silver fork. He picks up his other hand. “You do the same with the knife, so they’re both pointed down. Then, you just pick up the food and eat it. I’m sure you know how to do that.”

“Yes.” Zayn laughs. Barely. His cheeks feel too warm under the flickering of the candles all of a sudden. “Thank you.”

Harry winks at him and leans back over to his food. He begins conversation with his wife, but as soon as the first bite of food is in Zayn’s mouth the world falls to a whisper. He zones out completely—though careful not to forget his manners, wiping his mouth every so often with a handkerchief to gather excess food like he’s seen the couples on 52nd and 3rd do over brunch on Monday mornings—until almost the entirety of the food on his plate has been devoured. He looks down, wide eyed to see his belly protruding out of its usual flat position. He’s so full he thinks he might burst if he eats another thing. 

“That was wonderful, love.” Harry rubs his bloated belly.

Zayn hums in agreement. 

“Thank you,” she says, though she doesn’t seem too pleased about it. 

“I don’t think we’ll be having dessert for a while,” Harry says. “Unless, you could squeeze in some sponge cake, Zayn.”

“Not possible,” he mumbles.  

Harry chuckles. “Didn’t think so.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she says, balancing pots in her hands in a stack. “Now, I have to wash it all up. There’s no rest for the wicked.”

When Helena stumbles and the plates in her hand wobble, Zayn clumsily jumps from his seat to grab them. “Here, I’ll help you clean.”

“No, Zayn. It’s fine, sit down,” Harry objects. He stands to his feet and walks around the table. “I told you, you’re a guest.”

“Harold, he said he’d help,” Helena says, hard eyes at Harry.  

“No, Helena. He’s not—”

“Harry, I don’t mind helping around,” Zayn interrupts him, shrugging.

Harry sighs. “Well, then I’ll do it with you. Darling, you can rest.”

“No,” she refuses. “You never clean the saucepans right. He can help me.” 

He looks back to Zayn.

“It’s fine, Harry.”

Harry suspires and runs a hand over his stressed eyes. “Yes. Yeah, okay. You can help if you want. I have some things to do up in my office. There truly is no rest for the wicked.”

He grabs his glass of wine and leans in to Helena. As he kisses his wife, Harry’s fingers graze along Zayn’s, and Zayn moves his fingers along, and for a moment they hold hands. Then Harry lets go, steps back, and disappears from the dining room. 

Zayn waits until he hears the creaks of the staircase in the hallway to grab more plates from the table and follow Helena into the kitchen. She’s sorting through pans once he gets there. He places the plates down on the side, setting the ones with leftover food on them separate from the rest. 

“You can start washing the dishes up while I sort through the leftover food,” Helena instructs, pointing to the sink filled with soapy water.

“Okay.” 

He rolls his sleeves up and reaches into the icy water, picking up the brush and the first plate his hand reaches and cleans. His eyes glance over to Helena, but he looks away when he finds her eyes already on him. He keeps his head down and tries not to fall under her gaze.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“America,” he says, brows pinched. He continues cleaning, focusing on the how the coldness of the water turns his knuckles red.

“Oh.”

“Where are you from?” he asks—to be polite if anything; he doesn’t have any keen interest in talking to her in actuality.

“America. Born and bred, proudly. The land of dreams.” She snuffs her chin into the air, standing tall. “Are you homeless?”

Zayn hides his surprise at her bluntness. “No. I have a home.”

“And why aren’t you staying there now?”

“Because Harry invited me to spend Christmas with him.”

“Don’t you have your own family to spend this time with?”

“Not today, I don’t.”

“I just think it’s a bit… odd, don’t you? How Harry has taken such a keen interest in you. What I’m saying is, you certainly don’t work with him, and I’m curious to know where he found someone so poor.”  

The insipid subtlety of profligate gazes; downtrodden glares from expensive eyes clad in a glossy seam of a falsely secure world; all the calluses and lacerations of disregarded crimes branded into his skin—the memories flood back to him. Those grim eyes that stare down at him and his ripped clothing in disgust. 

How do you explain to someone, who’s only ever known riches, what rags feel like on the skin? The simple answer is: you don’t. Because it’s all so fruitless: moronic, and muted, and fruitless. 

“And, well, I’ve seen people in better condition than you on the streets.” She digs the knife in deeper to his back. Twisting and pulling and has the audacity not to yank it out and let him bleed.

Zayn drops the plate that was in his hand to the bottom of the sink with a clatter, his fingers feeling stiff and numb. Silence; for a moment, stark and bitter quiet. A spark of anger flickers inside him, down to the coil of his heart, but his tone remains collected and respectful as he speaks. 

_Fruitless._

“I’m not dirty, Helena, if that’s what you’re worried about. If you’re concerned I’ll ruin your lovely carpet or fancy upholstery. I shower often,” he tells her.

“I doubt that,” she says under her breath. “Your family are the same, then? Do you all sleep in one room? Underneath a bridge?” 

The grinding sound of teeth resonates from Zayn’s vice-like jaw. He closes his eyes to regather, when he feels that familiar sting in the top of his nose—that feeling before the dam breaks loose. When he opens his eyes, he continues cleaning the dishes he wants to fling against the walls and shatter into thousands of pieces.

“My family are dead,” he says, voice clipped. Bitter. Stark. Silence. “But no, they weren’t. They were better off than me.” 

“And why are you here now? Why are they dead and you alive?” 

Zayn clashes the clean plates on the side harder than he should; from the corner of his eye he sees Helena flinch and step back. He wipes his hands on the rag to the side and looks to her.

There’s a trepidation bubbling on the corners of his tongue, the whispering roar of his father’s voice— _“keep your mouth shut, accept the things you can't change”_ —in the back of his mind, and the tingle of an electric current soaring through the tips of his fingers.

“Because that’s how the world is,” he says, biting back his tongue. “Some people live, some people die.”

“If that’s how the world is, why are you stood in my kitchen now? Why aren’t you on your knees somewhere, scrubbing floors and cleaning clothes?” she asks. 

Zayn can almost see the the beat of her heart in her throat. “Because your husband thinks I deserve to be here.”

“And do you think you deserve to be here? To sit at our table and eat our food?” she asks, but Zayn remains silent. “What are your intentions with my husband? What do you want with Harry?”

Zayn’s mind slithers to the idea of Harry’s rough palms, his smooth skin, his toned chest and muscular legs, and how sweet it must feel to be within them all. How it would feel to touch him, or kiss him, or ghost his own scarred skin against Harry’s. He shakes his head to try and push the thoughts into the void.

“I don’t think I’m the one you need to ask that question to,” Zayn says. Helena opens her mouth to speak but Zayn beats her to it. “Is there anything else you would like me to do?”

Helena clamps her mouth shut and, without an answer, storms from the room. Her feet up the stairs echo through the house, a door from the second-floor slamming shut, followed with a disdained proclamation, and Harry’s calm voice to balance it all.

He sighs to himself, but a hint of humour resides within him. Either Helena doesn’t realise how thin the walls are, or she simply doesn’t care.  

His cheeks feel too warm as he presses his palms to the skin. He walks out of the kitchen, grabbing the half-full bottle of wine as he passes the dining table, and makes his way to the front door. He lets his lungs gyrate with fresh, crisp air as he steps out on to the porch and takes a place on the bench a few metres from the door.

Breathe in, breathe out. A swig of aged wine. Tipsy on hate, sobered by the gentle sound of lapping water and the call of the night-time birds. A gulp of wine. And another. And another, until the glass bottle is light as a feather between his fingertips. His breath fogs in a cloud as he exhales and his skin glissades with cold bumps, but he enjoys it—nature: the only bitterness that welcomes him with open arms. He rests his head back against the panelled house wall and lets his eyes fall shut. A swallow and a shaky sigh. The stretch of skin that makes the scars feel like they’re pulling back open, fresh. He sighs—the last drops drain from the bottle, and he lets it slide to the floor.

 _Damn you_ , he thinks, looking up to the sky in vehemence. _Whoever you are, damn you._

Zayn doesn’t know how longs he’s been out here, doesn’t even hear the door swing open on it’s creaky hinges, when the bench next to him dips with the weight of another. Harry sits next to him. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, too, though he offers the coat in his palms to Zayn—the same one from yesterday, Zayn notices. He takes it wordlessly.

“I love coming out here for quiet, too,” Harry says, voice croaky. “Not silence, I hate the silence. But the quiet. Nature makes the most beautiful sound.”

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Zayn says.

“You apologise too much, darling.”

Zayn watches the sweep of a smirk progress on Harry’s lips; he feels his own lips twitch at that. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

“Somehow, I knew you’d say that,” Harry says. He opens his eyes and reaches to the side, pulling a steaming cup that Zayn didn’t see before into view.  

Zayn takes it in his hands, when Harry pushes it his way. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry takes his own cup into his hands and sips, but he pulls away with a hiss. “Don’t drink it yet, it’s too hot.”

Zayn laughs softly. “Do you hurt yourself often? You’ve done it twice today already.”

“I’m reckless.” He shrugs. “What’s a little burn, a little scratch, in the grand scheme of things?”

“They don’t look like little scratches,” Zayn says, pointing to Harry’s covered chest, where he saw his scars this morning and traced his fingers across them.

“Oh, yeah… those,” Harry says, his voice quiet. “Battle scars. Bullet wounds.”

“They’re all bullet wounds?” Zayn asks.

“Most of them.” Harry smiles. “They’re memories, too. Of victory, I suppose. They aren’t completely useless.”

“And strength,” Zayn adds. “Scars show strength. Even the ones you can’t see.”

“Yes, exactly,” Harry says with a smile.

They stare at one another, Harry eyes seeming unyielding, whilst Zayn’s turn away the moment he feels an inkling of awkwardness in his chest.

“You know, the war taught me a lot of things,” Harry begins. “One of them, was to go for what you want in life. Get it, be relentless. Life is too unreliable to wait around for the stars to fall at your feet.  

Zayn ducks to taste his tea. It’s warm and sweet in his throat. “You’re very, very profound.”

Harry raises his hands, shrugging. “I told you, I’m a writer. Comes with the job.”

“Right.” Zayn nods.

“Do you remember it? The war.”

“Yes, of course I do,” Zayn says. “I don’t think it’s something people forget so easily. It shook the world.”  

“You’re right.” He hums. “Do you remember your position? Your number? God, I wish I could forget mine. They inked mine into my skin, so I’ll never forget it. Just below my hip. Bastards.”

A part of Zayn thinks he’s been dreading this moment since the night they met, since Harry first asked him about the war, since he was so open about it all. He’s thought about it: what he would do, what he would say. How does he explain to a soldier that there’s been a war raging in his heart since the moment he took his first breath? That his first step as a child may as well have been into the pits of a battlefield?

“I, uh…” Zayn makes this sound, a laugh and a scoff. He contemplates speaking at all, wonders if it would be easier if he pretends he swallowed his tongue through the honey and water. But Harry is looking at him with expecting eyes, with smaragdine, starry eyes, and he feels trapped. He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t in the war.”

“What?” Harry asks. He laughs incredulously, as if he doesn’t believe him, but the surprise Zayn expected to be there is evident once he sobers. “You weren’t in the war?”

“I wasn’t.” Zayn’s eyes turn down to the stained, wooden floor.  

“How?” Harry sits up straighter. “Everyone was in the war. You’re the perfect age.”

“You think they’d let me fight for our country? Someone like me?” Zayn asks, defensively. “They’d rather shoot me themselves with their own Tommy’s before the enemy got to me.”

“I saw plenty of people like you in the trenches, in the war,” Harry states, shaking his head.

“And how many did you see come out? How many lived, Harry?” Zayn asks. But Harry has no answer for him, except for the piercing of his lips and the frown on his countenance.

“Where did you go, then?” Harry asks. “They raided houses, took every boy they could find, made them soldiers.”

“My father hid me well,” he grumbles, his fingers playing with the rim of his cup.

He turns his head the other way as the memories flush back. Those nights underneath creaky floorboards, and hot pipes, and dusty floors. Those months of not being able to move without making a sound. Those years he went without hearing his own voice above a whisper or a seldom hum, without seeing the sun or the stars or the sky. He bites his lip so hard he thinks it might bleed.

 “Helena told me you said your family is dead,” Harry says, quietly. “Is that true, Zayn?”

Zayn’s breathing hitches, curses himself. The crippling tone of his father taunts him in low, menacing chuckles that reverberate off the edges of his skull. Curse him and his impulsive tongue.

“Yes,” he says after a pause, a swallow, his neck streaking with tightened veins as his jaw tightens in a lock. “I shouldn’t have told her that.”

“Your father is alive,” Harry says. “How can your family be dead?”

Zayn scoffs sourly. Resentment sinks into the lines around his mouth as it turns down. “My father died a long time ago.”

“And you call me profound,” Harry jokes, but neither of them laughs. “I’m sorry, Zayn. I am. I understand what that’s like.” 

“Do you?”

“Yes, Zayn. I do.” Harry frowns and suspires. He repositions himself, edging closer to Zayn but not giving him the satisfaction of a touch. Harry leans forward with his elbows on his knees, staring straight into the darkness. “I came back from the war with a note that ripped the remaining ligaments of my life apart.”

“Your family died in the war?”

“A bomb hit their house whilst they were asleep,” Harry tells. “I sit up and think about it some nights. Whether they suffered for hours or died peacefully in their sleep, nonethewiser.”

It’s peculiar, Zayn thinks, how a moment ago Zayn couldn’t seem to meet Harry’s eyes, and now the tables have flipped and left everything on the surface shaking. Zayn looks to Harry with an altered curiosity.

“I’d like to think it was the latter,” Zayn says. To console Harry, he doesn’t fucking know. How do you console someone over something that happened eight years ago?

“I’ve seen innocent men be blown to scraps on the battlefield, their screams…” Harry fades away, shaking his head. “I’d like to believe that, too.”

“I may not have been in the war, but I’d like to think I know some things about battle. About wounds,” Zayn says, so quietly he’s sure Harry will miss it.

“I saw your scars, I’ve seen your bruises. I saw the scars on your back last night.” Zayn takes a deep breath, his heart skipping a whole sequence of beats. “Only a man who’s known war has scars. I don’t doubt for a moment you’ve had your slice of battle on earth.”

A melancholy trickles into Zayn—into his eyes, his dry yet sniffling nose, his lips as he smiles snidely. “I don’t think my war is over yet.”

“I think I know what it is about you now, Zayn. What draws me to you,” Harry says. As Zayn looks to him, the moon shines from behind the clouds and reflects so perfectly, so auspiciously, the sincerity that bounces from the walls of Harry’s eyes as it walks across his skin. “You’re beautiful. Pure. Inside and out. It gives me hope.”

Zayn hopes Harry can’t see the deepening of his cheeks under the bare night. He clamps his teeth down on his rough lip. “Hope for what?”

“That the world is still good.”

Harry’s hand slips across Zayn’s lap to brush against his. A gasp, a tingle, a taste of something sweeter than the honey in his tea. Zayn knows he should move away from the touch, like he knows he should have all those times before. He knows he should move away, before Helena sees from one of the many windows peering outside. He knows he should let go, because he’s running into something blindly, foolishly, something inescapably breath-taking, but he doesn’t. He lets Harry touch his skin aflame, and even dares to turn his fingers around to intertwine them with Harry’s. 

“Look, I think I should—”

“No,” Harry interrupts him.

“What?”

“I know what you’re going to say. You can’t leave, Zayn. You told me you’d stay.”

“No,” Zayn says, laughing, “you told me I’d stay.”

“It’s the same thing.” 

“It’s not. It’s not at all, Harry.” 

“Besides, there may not be a blizzard outside anymore, but the snow is still high and it’s icy. All the roads will be vacant, no one will be driving, and there’s no way you could walk back into the city without freezing to death.” Harry shrugs. “You’re stuck here with me. And my bitch of a wife.”

 “Harry,” he says, laughing in surprise. Harry smiles along with him. “You can’t speak about your wife that way.” 

“Why not? I’m sure she says worse things about me at work with her friends,” Harry says.

Zayn looks off briefly, into the distance. He sees the flashing lights, the blinding electric commotion of the city, and frowns. “Are we not in the city?”

“Not in the central city, no,” Harry says. “We’re in New York’s version of the countryside. It’s not too busy around here. Apart from this one, there’s only three more houses on the entire road. It’s quiet out here; serene. It’s refreshing to come back here and escape the bustle of city life.”

“It seems beautiful out here. I don’t remember the last time I woke up to the quiet of nature.” Zayn’s brows gather. “In fact, I don’t think I ever have.”  

“Well, now you have.”

 “I guess so.” Zayn proffers a small smile. “I hope you don’t mind I took your wine. And drank it.” 

“I don’t mind at all,” Harry says. “It’s better with you than it is me. Wine makes me a moody bastard sometimes.” 

“It was your last bottle,” Zayn says.

“That’s one less bottle for those silly girls, who come here after work with Helena, to drink.” Harry shakes his head, a flutter of aggravation dusting through his tone. “Can’t stand that lot.”

“Bitches, too?”

“Superlatively so,” Harry cries as quiet as he can in the night, his voice echoing past the shadows of the ferns and the maples. Zayn allows himself to laugh, even if only softly. “You fit in here pretty well. With us.”

“With you,” Zayn corrects.

Harry makes this face; a disagreement, or a cringe—like he doesn’t really believe in what he’s saying, but he’s saying it anyway. “Helena will warm up to you. I know she will. She’s never been great with strangers, with people she doesn’t know.” 

Zayn sarcastically sighs, arching and deflating his brows. He looks off into the distance. “I’m sure she does. But I don’t plan on sticking around long enough for us to be anything more than strangers. I’ll be leaving in the morning.” 

“Then, I’ll follow you.”

“What?” Zayn turns to Harry. “You can’t, Harry. You must stay at home.”

“How else will I know if you got home safely?” Harry asks.

Zayn takes in a breath. A light, yet heavy breath. What did I do to deserve this kindness? What did I do to be treated so well? The kindness Harry shows him is comparative to none, and in his heart the idea goads a spark, but in his mind he’s afraid the world will start to crumble around him at any given moment, or he’ll wake up from a dream in the stained and confining walls of his room and none of this will ever have happened.

He doesn’t deserve this. That’s what this is, that’s what he thinks; what his father would think, too, if he knew what Zayn was doing. 

“Well, how will I know if you’ve got home safely?” Zayn asks. 

“Oh, you’re right. I’ve been through bullets, and guns, and crazed, psychopathic Nazi’s, but a few dastardly snowflakes are my downfall,” he drips with sarcasm, and it shines in the light. When Zayn breaks into smile, Harry transitions into his usual pensive countenance. “Don’t worry about me, I’m a strong man.”

“I can take care of myself, Harry.” 

“Yes,” Harry says, nodding his head, “your scrawny arms and thin legs assure me you’ll get home without falling over.”

“I’m stronger than you think I am,” Zayn says defensively.

A switch flips within him, and the walls around his chest ascend as they’re pulled out to form by some vast scar in Zayn’s psyche. When he realises, he tries to suppress them, to tell the guns ready at the gates to stand down. But they remain aiming, willing to shoot Harry down, even though he doesn’t want to hurt him. Zayn frowns and sighs. Habit of a lifetime.

“I know you are, Zayn,” Harry says beside him in earnest. “In fact, I think your strength probably challenges mine.”

Zayn doesn’t realise how tense his shoulders are until he releases them, until Harry’s security managed to unwind them, muscle by muscle. Slightly, and only ever so slightly, he shifts closer to Harry. He thinks Harry notices, from the flitting of his eyes and the way they shoot back and leave Harry’s lips to twitch. But he speaks nothing of objection.

“I’d like to take you out there, sometime,” Harry says, his eyes pointing to beyond the borders of the forest. “There’s this place I like to go—a haven, if you will. I go there to write, or think, or just… get away for a while. I want to show you.”

Zayn’s brows draw closer together. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on that, Harry. It’s your place.”

“Why do you always think you’re intruding?” Harry slips his elbows from his knees and sits straight to look at him.

And Zayn can’t help but be overwhelmed, his chest tightening, by the will in Harry’s eyes.

He shakes his head fervently. “It’s just what I’ve known. I don’t mean to annoy you.”

“You’re not annoying me, Zayn.” He sighs. “I just wish you’d see that you’re here because I want you to be here. I’m enjoying having you here, in my home, in my company. You’re refreshing. I sense that you understand much more than you let people know. It’s intriguing. I know it’s slightly, and yet overtly, wrong for you to be here and I really shouldn’t—I shouldn’t…” he trails off.

His hands rise and fall in exasperation, in frustration. For a moment, Harry’s eyes leave Zayn’s to wander and search (for an answer, perhaps), but Zayn’s eyes never leave his, and they’re willing and waiting to entwine them again as Harry looks back to him.

“I got you something,” Harry says, diverging from the topic. Zayn ignores the twinge of disappointment he feels. Harry pulls out a square box from his coat pocket and presents it to Zayn. He proffers the box in Zayn’s direction. “Take it, it’s for you. I thought it fitting for you to have a gift, considering it’s Christmas.”

 _Oh_. “Harry,” Zayn says in his soft, taken voice. He glances down to the box and back to Harry, and, with deep hesitation, he takes the luxurious velvet in between his rough fingertips.

He lifts the lid up and sees a watch tucked into a plush cushion sitting inside. Zayn’s eyes widen as he takes it in; its shiny, polished surface and thick leather strap. Zayn shakes his head, astounded and stubborn. No, no, no. He can’t take this.

“Harry—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupts Zayn. “I know you’re thinking it’s too much, but it’s not. I was sat in my office, thinking about how you’d watched Helena and I exchange gifts and you—you didn’t have anything. And then I remembered seeing your watch. It’s cracked and ripping at the seams, I’m surprised it stays around your wrist. And my mind wandered to my old watch, the one just sitting in my drawer, how it was getting no use.”

Zayn’s old and scruffy watch burns around his wrist, and he’s sure he can almost hear the off-tune ticks as they sit there together, faced to one another; Zayn’s eyes filled with dismay and Harry’s with warmth.

“It’s my old watch. Perfect condition and all, but I swapped it out when I got my new watch earlier in the year from my boss, and I’d love to have kept this one, but can’t say no to the Bossman, now, can we?” Harry chuckles, more to himself than anyone. “I want you to have it, Zayn. I want you to have this. From me, for Christmas, as a gift, as an apology for my wife’s behaviour. As a thank you for being so pliant in this whole situation.”

Zayn’s mouth hangs open, but he has no intention of saying anything. He can’t. He’s so speechless that, for a second, he thinks his tongue might have ran away with the tranquility that’s just escaped the moment to avoid Harry’s surprise. He’s shaking his head, mind reeling.

“Your first present, I presume?” Harry asks.

Zayn chokes out a laugh. “Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“Harry, I love it, but—”

“Then it’s settled.” Harry places his and Zayn’s cup down and takes the box from Zayn’s hand, uncurling the watch from the box. “Here, let me put it on you.”

“Harry…”

“Zayn, please do this for me.”

 His eyes are wide and expecting. Zayn sighs. How can he say no to those eyes? He lifts his arm and raises the coat sleeve to unbuckle his own watch. The scruff scraps of his watch look embarrassingly peasant-like compared to the new leather Harry secures around his wrist. It’s a perfect comparison; a delectable representation. It feels wrong, the quality of the watch, being wrapped around his wrist. Cold and fresh against his worn skin. But he doesn’t object. He lets, not only Harry, but himself have this one moment of luxury and satisfaction. Just this once.

“Thank you, Harry. It’s positively the best thing I’ve ever owned. I’ll treasure it,” he says. He pours his appreciation and gratitude into his eyes and hopes Harry can see it.

“I’m glad. It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”  

Harry’s hand lingers across Zayn’s skin as he finishes putting on Zayn’s new, overly-expensive watch. His fingertips trickle down the thin skin of his wrist, where Zayn’s veins lie close to the surface, screaming at him, trying to push up and break the skin. When Harry reaches his palm, he turns his hand around and holds Zayn’s in his own, so they’re one.  

Zayn looks down at their vine-like hands and meekly smiles. Although it’s freezing outside, and Zayn’s breath creates a fog in front of him, one touch from Harry seems to send him alight. And it’s so strange, how Harry’s hand is so warm and yet so cold. God, he knocks the air out of Zayn, his gentleness disorienting him, and his soft brushes sending the hairs on the back of Zayn’s neck up in arousal, even from the smallest of touches. 

When Zayn looks back up, Harry is staring at him so intensely it makes him shiver. The proximity between them has shortened and, by the way Harry continues to lean in even though he sees the blatant trepidation on Zayn’s face, Zayn believes it to be intentional. 

And he likes it—he really, really, likes it. But he can’t let this happen. Can he? No, of course he can’t. How could he? Why would he, when Harry’s wife is sat inside their house, alone, and yet he’s out here with Zayn? She’s human, and Zayn’s not a monster. He can’t do this. Can he?

When Harry’s tousled hair brushes against Zayn’s forehead, he pulls back. Harry’s eyes are half-closed, fluttering.

“Harry…” Zayn whispers.

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, crinkling at the side almost as if in pain, and he falls back. Zayn watches with regret etched in the corners of his mouth. The pendulum strikes a clock of guilt within him.

The silence is deafening. Even the birds seem to have stopped their wooing of the night, and the waning crescent in the sky hides back behind the clouds, leaving them to bathe in the wall of night. A meagre sigh lingers on Harry’s lips, parted and wet as Zayn watches his tongue come out to touch them.

“We should go inside,” Harry says, his voice croaky and raw, like he’s been chewing on glass. “It’s cold.”

“Okay,” Zayn responds quietly.

He stands after Harry does, walks behind him like a puppy, shrugs his coat off when Harry does, and follows him into the living room. Zayn knows the satisfaction he feels when he sees no sight of Helena around is inappropriate, but he can’t deny it. How can he, when he feels the desire, the need, to stare at Harry without the reminder that it’s not his place?

“Come and sit by the fire, Zayn. Warm yourself up,” Harry orders kindly, with that sincere tone that makes Zayn want to comply.

He sits down in front of the fire, shivering, and puts his hands out towards the flames. Harry brings a blanket to fall over his shoulders, and he welcomes the warmth. Harry sits down next to him with his own blanket and tea. He hands Zayn’s cup to him.

“What time is it?” Zayn asks.

“Almost midnight,” he replies. “Christmas is almost over.”

“Yeah.” Zayn stares into the flames, the heat making him drowsy. When Zayn finishes his tea, Harry reaches out to take the cup and accidentally brushes his fingers with Zayn.

“God, you’re freezing, Zayn.”

He repositions them so they’re facing one another and takes Zayn’s hands into his own and rubs them to warm them up. Zayn suppresses a content sigh. How are Harry’s hands still so warm? So smooth and comforting? Zayn hasn’t the faintest idea, but he revels in the touch. He almost gasps in indignation, when Harry moves his hands away and replaces them with his own cup.

“Thank you.”

“We should head to bed soon, it’s getting late,” Harry says.

“Yeah.” Zayn’s eyes are down to his lone, rough-skinned hands, pondering on how much nicer they look entwined with Harry’s.

When he looks up, Harry is with him. His eyes look so beguiling under the light, as the flames from the fire whisper in the smaragdine halos of them both. Harry is giving him the weakest of smiles, looking desperate to be lost in the shadow that lingers over his Cupid’s bow from the flames. Zayn blames the fire for his glowing cheeks.

“Come on,” Harry whispers. He stands to his feet and offers his hand out, which Zayn takes greedily.

 

They slip upstairs, Harry treading carefully as to avoid the creaky stairs he knows so well, and Zayn follows his each step. He leads Zayn into the room he stayed in last night and turns the lamp on. Zayn shuts the door when Harry instructs him to do so.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Zayn asks in a whisper, as he watches Harry take his shirt off.

Scars he’s never seen before appear scattered along the milky skin of Harry’s back. A ‘v’ forms between Zayn’s brows, and he mutes the urge to draw across them with his cold fingertips. Instead he busies himself with analysing the deep ink that scatters across Harry’s arms, whilst waiting a response. “Harry,” he repeats after the silence.

“I’m getting ready for bed,” Harry responds.

“Your bed is in the other room.” Where your wife is. Zayn’s jaw tightens.

“Actually, this is my house and I own everything in it,” Harry says cockily. “So, technically everything in this house is mine, including this bed.”

“But your wife—”

“Is probably already fast asleep and will be ignoring me because I’ve disgruntled her.”

“You’ve disgruntled her,” Zayn mutters. He decides that picking at the tattered edge of his shirt will be better than watching Harry slip out of his trousers. “Why? What did you do?” 

“I refused to give her what she wanted.”

“And that was?”

“She wanted you to leave. I refused.” Harry pulls back the sheet and climbs in to bed with a shiver. “Are you coming? It’s cold.”

 _Oh_.

“You want me to sleep with you?”

“Well, I want to sleep in the bed with you. If that’s okay,” Harry says.

“It’s your house,” Zayn repeats Harry’s words, shrugging.

“Yes, you’re right. Come,” he invites Zayn to the bed, patting the space beside him.

Zayn hesitates for a moment before pulling his shirt—that’s so baggy on him, he doesn’t even have to undo the buttons—over his head and drops it on the idle, wooden chair sitting against the wall. His trousers are pulled off awfully slow, Harry’s gaze making the moment feel just as torturous, making Zayn feel just as shy.

When Zayn is stood only in his briefs and socks, with his new watch sitting heavy on his thin wrist, Harry leans back and draws him in from head to toe. Zayn scuffles to the bed hastily, feeling flustered and embarrassed under Harry’s perusing eyes. The sheets are cold on his thighs, but Harry’s body heat radiates to him. They both lie down and their eyes never leave one another. 

Harry’s gentle touch on his arm evokes a stuttering gasp from Zayn. The sheet sits as high as Zayn’s shoulders, but he still looks down to see if the touch looks as gratifying and delicate as it feels in Zayn’s chest.

“You’re freezing,” Harry whispers, his warm breath rolling over him. Zayn holds his breath when Harry travels his hand along his skin and settles his arm in the dip between his hip and his rib cage. He runs his fingers across the protruding bones of Zayn’s chest. “You’re so thin.”

“I know.”

“I just, sort of, want to feed you, take care of you, make sure you’re okay.” He curls his fingers and tickles Zayn’s skin, and Zayn covers with goosebumps.

“I’m okay,” Zayn says.

“Are you?” 

Their eyes lock for a brief, sating moment, before Zayn feels inundated by the intensity of the moment and blinks to fracture the space between them.

 _No_. “Yes, I’m okay,” he lies.

From the discerning waver in Harry’s eyes, Zayn knows he’s detected the fiction on his tongue. He’s thankful when Harry lets it go.

His hand trails up Zayn’s chest, paces a canal along the top of his arm, pools around his neck, and winds up across his cheek. He strokes the slowly healing cut across Zayn’s lip and tickles the thick hairs covering his chin. And all Zayn can do is sit there and try not to squirm, to writhe, under his touch. All Zayn can do is stare and try not to fall deeper into the auspicious, emerald pool of his eyes, because he can’t swim, and he knows he’ll drown if he takes another step out to shore.

A part of him wants to jump. 

“You have such pretty eyes, Zayn,” Harry muses. 

Zayn eyelashes flutter, coyly. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say things that force me to blush.”

In the darkness, he shrugs. “I like seeing you blush. It brings some colour to these worn away cheeks.”

“It makes me uncomfortable,” Zayn confesses.

Harry frowns, his hand falling back down to Zayn’s waist in brisk breeze. “It does?”  

“Sometimes.” He shifts his one leg forward and brushes against Harry’s thigh. Zayn breath stutters. “But—but, even in the most awkward moments, you give me a sense of comfort.” 

“Well, I suppose that’s okay,” he hums. “What’s the most awkward I’ve made you feel?”

Zayn knows which moment, which time—it pops into his mind the moment Harry speaks—but he says nothing. He does nothing but shake his head in that awfully shy way that proves Harry right.

“What?” Harry asks. When Zayn shakes his head again, Harry squeezes his thin waist and edges them closer together. It’s reassurance, he’s sure—the notion cemented by Harry’s earnest stare. And he’s so delicate… Zayn thinks he might burst. “Tell me, Zayn.”

“The night we met…” Zayn fades away, before he respires. “The night when you tried to kiss me, when you were half-seas over.”

“Ah,” Harry says, a subtle smile playing across the lines of his lips. “I told you I wouldn’t remember that, but I do. I remember that night. Not all of it, so I say, but the most important parts.”

“Important parts,” Zayn repeats.

“The parts with you.”

Harry’s fingers tighten against his hip. As Zayn looks down, underneath the tent the sheet has made lay across them both, he hopes they leave the lineation of a mark he can be proud of.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says.

“I think that’s just a part of how you make me feel. Uncomfortable, you know? It’s how you express yourself. I’m not particularly opposed to it,” Zayn responds. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“I wasn’t just talking about that.” Harry exhales, and the front pieces of hair that have fallen over his forehead float before drifting down again. “I mean, for everything. For bringing you here and making you uncomfortable. For my wife seeing you and making you feel unwelcome. You are welcome, Zayn. I hope you know that.”

“So, you didn’t intend to ever introduce me to your wife?” Zayn asks. He attempts to hide the offence he feels, but by the softening of Harry’s knitted brows he knows his voice has given him away.

“No. No, no, it’s—no, not like that. I don’t mean it like that,” he scrambles, indentations of his stress lining the feet on his head. “I didn’t intend to introduce you, not yet. It was just such a surprise, I didn’t expect her to be home. I didn’t expect things to stray from the plan.” 

“What plan?”

“The—” He closes his eyes, strains them against his lashes and flutters them open again. “It doesn’t matter. I just didn’t expect you to meet her so soon.”  

“Well, when did you plan on me meeting her?” Zayn inquires, shuffling, unsure of himself. Harry’s touch feels so suddenly ablaze and hot that Zayn welcomes the breeze passing through the room from the open window. 

“When you were more comfortable with me, I suppose. When you’d seen the house and knew your place better, where your feet land on the ground. I didn’t want to inundate you, and by attempting to avoid doing that I’ve executed it perfectly.”

“It’s okay,” Zayn assures.

But it’s not. It’s not okay. How could it be? When would it ever be? Zayn doesn’t know, but it’s not okay. When he feels like every step he takes on their wooden floor is a sin he should beg forgiveness for, when he feels misplaced at a dining table created only for a husband and wife’s hands and mouths, when he’d rather sit alone in the bitter winter wind instead of the warmth of a house that wants to chew him up and spit him out. How is it okay?

 _Because of Harry,_ Zayn thinks. _Because of Harry. He makes it all okay._

_But he’s married._

_Unhappily, perhaps?_

_Does it make a difference?_

_No._

Yet, here he is. Letting Harry’s fingers draw circles into his waist and feeling the pulse between his thighs at the contact. Here he is, in bed with another woman’s husband, whilst she lies in the next room, reaching for him in her sleep and withdrawing with empty hands.

Zayn sighs. His eyes wince closed, lashes stuttering, heart hammering, skin cold and heart alight, yearning for a fragment of peace that will push this trouble out of his soul and to a pit off the coast of somewhere unreachable. _Let me have this_ , Zayn pleads. _Please, let me have this._

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks. 

Zayn’s eyes flash open. “What?”

“You look like you’re in pain,” he says.

Zayn relaxes. “It’s nothing, I was just… thinking.”

“Like normal people do,” Harry says jokingly. “What were you thinking?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t want to annoy you.”

“I don’t think you could ever possibly annoy me,” Harry says. “Go on, lay it on me, if it’s so cringingly insulting.”

“I was just…” _Fuck_. “I was thinking about your wife—Helena.” When all Harry does is hum expectantly, Zayn continues with a shakiness in his breath. “It’s just… it’s wrong, is it not? Being here with you now, in this… precarious position."

“Precarious position,” Harry imitates. “I like that.”

“It’s just… it’s a bit…”

“Intimate?” Harry finishes.

 _Yes!_ Zayn sighs, relieves that he understands. _And I despise the fact I enjoy it._

“It’s supposed to be,” Harry whispers.

Zayn tries to hide his unreliable breath—that elicits the truth of the situation in to play—when Harry lifts his dexterous fingers over his hip bone and follows the balled fabric of his briefs. He leaves his hand there, so close to Zayn’s arse, emitting the heat from his hand down on to his cold skin.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Harry asks. He pushes his head closer to Zayn.

“Yes,” Zayn answers in a voice no louder than the breath he hurriedly releases.  

“Do you mind it?”

“No.” 

Harry smirks, like he’s achieved something so spectacular. “My father was a rotten man, Zayn. He had no care for anyone but himself. My mother used to say his soul died before he was even born.”

Zayn frowns but listens intently, and tries to focus on each word Harry says instead of each circle that is drawn on his leg.  

“I always hated him. From the day I truly learnt the monster he was, I hated him. Abhorred him, with every ounce of me. But my mother, oh, Zayn, she was so lovely. She was the best woman I’d ever met. She had so much compassion, so much love, for everyone and everything. I remember she used to cry when skinning the rabbits or the birds or whatever my father brought home to eat that night. She loved everyone and everything.”

A rush of sorrow seeps isn’t Zayn’s skin as Harry’s eyes glaze over. And when a single tear peels from his lashes and trails down his cheek, Zayn urges his fingers forward to wipe it away. Their eyes meet, and Harry continues as if nothing happened, blinking back the rest of the wetness.  

“She was one of the very rare people that taught me to love everyone and everything. From birds and bees and spiders and rabbits, to every other thing. The beggars and the homeless; the rich and the poor; the dark and the light. Everyone was the same in her eyes. She used to say this thing, this quote, she lived by it: ‘We all have two eyes, two ears, a mouth, a nose, two hands and two feet. Some a voice we cannot use, and others who roar too proudly. We come in all shapes and sizes, different creatures from high and low, in white and blue and red and black and orange and gold and grey, but we are all God’s creation. And to not love these people, is to not love God’.”

“That’s beautiful, Harry.”

“She was beautiful. She was so beautiful,” Harry laments. “I remember it. I remember every word. It stuck with me like a scar: one that no one can see, but I feel it. I live by it, it’s my song of praise.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Zayn asks.

“I want you to know that I don’t—You’ve been raised in a world that’s ingrained with the idea of despising you, I just want to let you know that I don’t judge you. I don’t hate you. My mother would want me to treat you as equally as the next man and, despite the world we live in, I do. If I can do anything to honour her memory, it’s to be the son she hoped to raise right,” Harry confesses, and Zayn can swear he sounds… shy? 

 _Oh_. Zayn feels like his chest might combust.

Harry is confiding in him, being so open and vulnerable. It reminds Zayn of the night their first met when Harry was drunk. Only this time Harry isn’t under the influence of anything but his own sobriety, and the humility Zayn finds there has him stumbling in the dark.

How does he handle this? How does he react? How does someone as flawed and perfect as Harry walk into Zayn’s life and threaten to rattle everything inside, whilst keeping him balanced? Zayn is tempted to pinch himself just to make sure this isn’t one narcissistic dream that’s gone on for far too long.

“You are… Harry, you are so…” Zayn tries to explain, but it’s fruitless. His tongue feels tied in his mouth. 

“Yes?” Harry waits patiently. His fingers on Zayn’s leg have ceased their movement.

“I don’t understand why it’s me,” Zayn says. “Why am I here now? What is it about me that has you so… so caught up? I don’t understand, Harry. I don’t understand you.”

Harry sighs. “Sometimes, I don’t understand me, either.”

“Oh, Harry.” Zayn shakes his head, cowering his face into the pillow so Harry won’t see his whisper of a smile. “Why are you touching me like this? Why aren’t you with your wife, touching her like this?”  

“I like touching you,” Harry admits with a shrug, as if it’s a normal situation. “Your skin, it’s so soft, and you let me touch you. I like that. My wife, well, she doesn’t touch me anymore, and I don’t think I want her to. We’ve never had a traditional marriage, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be like this. The way she’s acting, it’s all for you, it’s all for show. We act more like acquaintances than husband and wife.”

“But, Harry, she cares for you. It’s clear.”

Harry snorts. “She cares for me as much as she cares about her girlfriends. She probably tells them more than me.”

“This is confusing. So confusing.” Zayn rubs his temples. 

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” Harry says, as Zayn yawns. His hand falls back into the curve of Zayn’s waist and pulls him closer.

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles. There’s a lassitude around his eyes and he relaxes into the bed. “You, too.”

Softly, Harry laughs. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?” Zayn asks, eyes half closed.

“I don’t sleep much anymore.” Harry pushes a strand of Zayn’s long hair back behind his ear. “You should, though. Sleep, love. I pray you have sweet dreams.”

Zayn closes his eyes, subtly aware of Harry shifting on the bed and his warmth beckoning him closer. He drifts off and dreams of Harry kissing his forehead, his nose, his cheek, goodnight.

 

 • • XI • •

  

With his first step into the speakeasy, Zayn feels the weight of the bricks and the chipping walls fall upon his shoulders. The stale smell of cigarettes and spilt juice makes a pool of compunction swirl in the pit of him. 

He regrets ever leaving Harry’s home, Harry’s bed, slipping away in the early hours of the morning when Harry finally fell asleep. Zayn shakes his head and tries not to think about the disappointed frown he knows will adorn the soft skin between Harry’s brows as he wakes and finds Zayn not there. 

 _He’ll mostly likely slink back into bed with his wife,_ Zayn spitefully thinks, before disregarding the thought all together. 

Sighing, he slips back behind the bar: his real home. His fingers trail across the chipped and unpolished mahogany. He smiles bleakly, but it’s soon wiped off his face when the creaking of the aged floorboards come in to play. In fact, Zayn thinks he feels his face drain of the little colour that lingers there, and he stands like a white sheet, waiting for the brute slump of his father to show his scarred and misshaped face from behind the corner of his cave.

When a hand slithers around the wall and lifts himself around the turn, Zayn swallows.

“Father,” he croaks out in greeting.

He feels the burden of his father’s gaze fall upon him, but he doesn’t look back.  

“Where have you been?” he asks, his voice raspy and trickling with the sound of the burn his last bottle of juice gave him. “Why weren’t you here?”  

Zayn can’t help but close his eyes and let his minder wander back to the last two days; how serene and quiet they were. With Harry and his overbearing wife. Suddenly the cumbersome moments and the tension and the back-handed insults and the long, drafted silences of tension seem like a blessing to the reality he’s been pushed back in to.

God, he hates himself. Hates taking it for granted because now, if you ask him, if he has the choice, he’d sacrifice all this to be back there, to be placed back into the bubble of a dream-like life he so desperately cleaves to his chest.

“Answer me, Zayn.”

“I was out, father,” Zayn says. “It was Christmas.”

“And where did you go? No one wants you anywhere near them, so where did you go?” He scoffs in disgust. “With the rats?”

“Just out into the city,” he quietly lies.

“And who was running the bar? Who was looking after it?”

“No one.” _But you should be,_ Zayn wants to shout at him, to shove him and bark at him like he’s a dog. But his tongue turns to cement in his mouth and his arms hang heavy like stones at his side. “The bar was closed.”

For a long, sedated moment there is silence. A deep, stark silence that Zayn pours all his fear in to. His father eyes him, like a tiger ready to pounce, his tail swaying behind him in wait for the sardonic instrumental. Then, the melancholy violin swings in with the first beat, and Zayn wants cower.

“The bar… was closed,” he repeats slowly. But then his bark turns in to a roar. “The bar was closed?”

“Yes, father,” Zayn says, shifting in his worn out, sole-less boots. “I’m sorry, Pa.”

“What have I told you about calling me that name.” He stomps his foot on the ground and the bottles on the racks judder, ever-so-slightly. He points a dirty finger at Zayn, eyes angered and glossy. “That is not for you. That name died with your brother.”

Zayn’s voice is merely but a cracked whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His father sighs runs a hand through his slick and dirty hair. Zayn begins to open his mouth to speak again—to apologise, to break the silence, to do anything to kill the malice of the atmosphere as it cripples him—but his father’s voice becomes an echo in the shadowed room. What resonates back to him makes a chill of bumps creep along Zayn’s skin.

“Father, I—”

In an instant his father is in front of him, and for the second time in days he feels the familiar sharpness of fingers that come down onto his cheek. His head whips to the side and he keeps his eyes down to the floor. 

“Do I have to repeat myself?” His father asks with grit teeth. “Get in the back room. And for every other word you speak, for every sound you make, so help me, God…”   

He pinches his lips together and pulls them between his teeth, to try and swallow the gasp that form in a ball in the back of his throat and make him feel as though he’s choking.

 _God_ , he just wants Harry’s light and gentle touches shifting softly against his skin. Why can’t he have that? Why does he have _this?_  

Afraid of waking the demon he knows lurks beneath his father’s skin, Zayn makes sure his scrappy shoes and lead-like feet are soundless on the wooden floor.

And like Harry, Zayn knows which floorboards scream the loudest in his home.

  

 • • XII • •

  

 _God, he hates this place,_ Harry thinks, as he walks through the stingy opening staircase of the speakeasy. With the chipped maroon paint peeling on to the floor and the distinctive smell and stains of piss up the wall. He struggles past tables of singing, drunken men and through a haze of cigar smoke to get to the bar.

It’s busy. Busier than usual. He puts it down to it being the celebratory week between Christmas and New Years, where everyone seems to lose the little of what’s left of their moral compass.

Harry manages to make it to the bar, pushing past of a group of dancing flappers, who try to steal him away. He looks around in search of Zayn and finds him moments later; his back in view, shuffling empty bottles and glasses underneath the bar. A glimmer of a smile spills onto Harry’s lips, but it disappears and replaces itself with a blow to his chest as Zayn turns around in his direction. 

The cut on his lip is split wide open again, like it’s been pulled apart. Dark and puffy eyes—he looks so tired, so pale and worn out. He looks like he might collapse at any moment, and yet no one pays attention to him, no one sees it the way Harry does at once. 

 _Oh, Zayn,_ Harry thinks with a frown.

As if feeling his presence, Zayn looks over to him. His eyes are timid and dark as they land on Harry’s, before they look away again, being busied with serving drinks at the bar. When there’s a break in requests, he comes to stand apprehensively in front of Harry.  

The music is too loud around them, but Harry doesn’t miss Zayn’s lips as they enunciate a small and quiet, “Hello.” 

“What happened?” He cuts straight to the chase.

“What?” Zayn asks.

“Zayn, what happened?”

“I can’t—I can’t hear you.” Zayn shakes his head. 

Harry can tell he’s lying; if not for the slow twitch in his lip or the fluttering of his lashes as they look away in a cumbersome manner, it’s for the fact Harry knows Zayn—at least, enough to know he’s lying.

 _He wants to be like that,_ Harry thinks, huffing. But then he looks around at the crowd of strangers and sees the lack of privacy in the room, and an understanding settles over him.

“A drink, anything,” Harry requests, and Zayn walks away to grab him a glass.

_Oh, you heard that well enough._

A half tumbler of gin is placed in front of him. He glances up with a frown, to suggest in something lighter, but Zayn is already whisked away by another customer. He takes a sip and is surprised when his tongue doesn’t squeal at the bitter taste and realises Zayn has already watered it down with seltzer.

An hour passes before he finally has a moment to speak to Zayn again, but it’s a mere second in passing. He exhales, frustrated. The bar stool rocks back and forth as he stands and manoeuvres his way through the crowd to the other end of the bar, where Zayn is serving a brusque man that is wrapped around a bottle and a half-naked bearcat.

When Zayn turns and he sees Harry in front of him, his breath catches in his throat and he swallows harshly. Harry motions to the dark and empty hallway beside him and, after looking across the edge of the bar—to see if anyone is waiting to be served, Harry guesses—he leads the way into the quiet shadows, and Harry follows behind him.  

It’s silent for a minute.  Zayn lies his back against the wall, with only the dim light from the party room that seeps through the crack in the half-shut door illuminating his face. Harry stands, patiently waiting, with his hands tucked in to the pockets of his trench coat.

“You’ve made a habit of slipping away whilst I’m asleep,” Harry says in a seriocomic tone to break the silence.

“I had to leave, Harry. I told you that.”

“I know,” he mutters. “That doesn’t mean I wanted you to.”

“I have a job, Harry. I can’t waste my time prancing around married men and expecting a carpet to be laid down for me,” Zayn snaps.  

Harry almost stumbles back in surprise. For a moment he feels alone in the steep darkness of the hallway. A lonely mood sinks in. He glances over Zayn, who’s staring behind a strange mask as he stands with pursed lips. _Who is this man?_ It’s not the one he left—who left him.

“I know that, Zayn. I just missed you when I woke up, is all,” he says softly. They sigh together, and Zayn’s head finally drops in submission. Harry reaches a hand up to his cheek, but Zayn flinches away before their skin can touch. Harry moves his hand back down to his side, rejection seeping into the frown in his brows like a stormy cloud. “What happened?”

All Zayn does is shake his head.

“Zayn,” he repeats more sternly, “what happened?”

Reluctantly, Zayn lifts his head. Eyes wide and glossy, though Harry can’t tell if it’s from the soreness that resides there or something else. “I got hit.”

“No shit.” Harry scoffs. “By who?”

“Just some drunk,” Zayn mumbles.

 _You’re lying._ “You can try again and tell me the truth this time.”

“I didn’t come back here for you to inquire me.” Zayn glares at him.

“And I didn’t come here to see you to just get the cold shoulder.”  

Zayn’s eyes return back to the floor. He shifts to his other foot, toying with the leather band of the watch. Harry’s face sulks as he notices the cracks in the glass. _It’s broken._  

“Your watch,” Harry says in a soft and insulted voice.

Zayn covers the watch with his hand in anxious succession at Harry’s words. “I fell on it, it broke.”   

“You fell? Are you hurt?” Harry assesses him with concern. 

“Of course I am,” he hisses, withdrawing when he realises how loud his voice is. “How could I not be hurting?”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay,” Harry says, before correcting. “Okay _enough_. You look awful.” 

“I feel awful,” Zayn whispers. Harry’s heart lurches. “My whole body aches, and I have to work. I’ve been on my feet all day. But what can I do about it? I have a job to do.”

“Come back with me,” he offers.

It’s Zayn that scoffs this time. “I’ve already gone with you. Look where it got me.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asks. Brows, eyes, lips lowering. _Does it mean what I think it means?_ Memories of Clane’s deep and callous voice mixed with Zayn’s perturbed face stirs inside him. A chill of anger rides up his spine. 

“It means nothing, Harry. Absolutely nothing,” he replies, cold.

“Why are you being like this?” Harry tries to contain his own frustration, but it seeps out in the syllables passing from his tongue and the curling of his fingers at his side.

“Being like what?” 

Exasperated, Harry sighs. “Like this. So distant. What changed from yesterday morning to now?”

“Something.”

“Something?” 

“Yes, Harry,” he bites, “ _something_.” 

“What then? What’s changed? Go on, I’m waiting.” Harry folds his arms. He knows it’s a petulant move, but his composure seems to be blinded by his curiosity to figure this out. To figure Zayn out.

“Harry, drop it. Please just go.”

Harry’s not having it. “No. You tell me now. I’m not leaving until you do.” 

“Everything, Harry!” he shouts. “Everything and nothing at all. That’s the problem. Nothing has changed for you, and everything has changed for me.”

“Lower your voice,” Harry hisses. “I’m confused. Zayn, I’m so confused. What’s—”

“Can you just tell me what your intentions are with me? Please?” There’s a splinter of desperation in Zayn’s voice. “Because I’m scrambling and it feels like I’m in the dark here, and I don’t know what to do because I don’t know what you want from me.”

A subtle crack in Zayn’s composed and hardened countenance sends a jolt of realisation through him. Oh; this is what he’s done. How fragmented and on the edge Zayn seems to be—it’s his fault, isn’t it? How could he be so blinded, so selfish? An image of a young boy, lost and alone, with dirt on his hands and bruises on his skin flashes in Harry’s mind like an ephemeral burn of a flame. He blinks it away with thinned lips and a troubled mind.

It hurts him to know he’s hurting Zayn. He didn’t mean to; he doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t want to hurt Zayn, of course he doesn’t. But he’s afraid it’s only the first drop of blood from the piercing of the cut, and the rest of the skin will soon rip apart.

He tries again to reach for Zayn, to pull him closer. Harry almost sighs in relief when he doesn’t pull away and falls into the cold palm of Harry’s hand instead. He steps forward as Zayn’s eyes close, moving so both of his hands to encompass Zayn’s face.

 _How could someone hurt you like this?_ Harry shakes his head, dismissing the thought entirely before the irate spark becomes too bold in his chest and he begins to hate himself.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles earnestly. His voice seems so loud in the sudden quiet of the stark and baron hallway. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. This is so confusing for me, Zayn. So confusing. I’ve never been so torn.” 

“About what?”

“About you, what you mean, what I plan to do—what I should do as opposed to what I want to do.” He sighs. “I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions by so many different things.”

Zayn looks up to him with such an unwilling vulnerability that makes Harry push Zayn as far back to the wall as he can. His hands come to land gently on Harry’s hips, his breath quickening. Their eyes land on one another’s, so brazen and ponderous. Zayn’s eyes swell with tears; Harry brings his other hand up to Zayn’s cheek to catch it with his thumb, but it never sheds. It just rests there, taunting him, glossy and glowing in the fiery light. 

“Zayn,” Harry whispers.

Zayn’s eyes flutter shut at the sound, and that single tear finally falls. In a courageous move, Harry leans forward and kisses the salty tear away. His lips break the seal of Zayn’s silence with a gasp that resonates around them. The hands on Harry’s hips tighten their hold, taking the material of Harry’s coat to crumple in his palms.

“I came here to invite you to my New Year’s party,” Harry says. He slowly pulls away, so he can see Zayn’s face clearly, who still has his eyes shut. “It’s on New Year’s Eve, if you didn’t know.”

A laugh escapes Zayn. “I would never have guessed.” 

There he is. Harry grins. “Well, you’re invited. If you want to come.”

“I don’t know whether it’s the best idea.” Zayn swallows nervously.

“Why not? I think it will be fun. Get away from here for a few hours,” Harry says. “This place does you no favours.”

“Who will be there?” 

Harry hums, stroking Zayn’s cheek in circles. “I will be there. Along with my wife. James, possibly his wife, though I doubt they’ll want to be seen in each other’s company. Some colleagues from work, possibly some of Helena’s girlfriends.”

“Will your boss be there?” Zayn asks.

There’s a hint of fear that resides within Zayn’s tone that makes Harry’s confusion further. Why is he so concerned with my boss? “He won’t be there. He’s assured me he’s too busy with his own plans to attend. Why, did something happen with him?”

Zayn shakes his head too enthusiastically. Harry’s eyes narrow. “No. He just—He showed the most resentment towards me at the Christmas party and, well… he intimidates me.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, he won’t be there,” Harry assures. “And even if he was, if you wanted to come, I’d make sure he doesn’t. If it means that much to you.” 

“I don’t know.” He sighs. 

“Just think about it,” Harry suggests. He steps back, and Zayn releases him. “You’ve got most of the week to make your decision. And truth be told I just wanted to see you.”

Zayn coyly smiles. “Why?”

“I woke up and you weren’t there.” Harry shrugs. Zayn looks away, but Harry shifts his fingers to raise his chin back up. “You don’t need to hide from me, Zayn. I won’t hurt you, not intentionally.”

“But you have hurt me,” Zayn says. “I was a fool to think you wouldn’t.” 

“I’m sorry. I tend to selfishly do that a lot, have my whole life. I’m afraid it might be inherent.” Harry chuckles but there’s no humour lingering in their moment. “Forgive me?”

Meekly, Zayn nods. He looks up to Harry and back down again with a blink. 

He’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t want me touching him, Harry thinks. 

Under the bleary light, Harry scrutinises Zayn’s tampered, broken lip. He’s seen wounds like this before, back in the day when they seemed more of an accessory than a blemish on his own face.

“I wish you told me who did this to you,” Harry says. 

“Why does it matter now? You can’t do anything about it.”  

“I could do _something_.”

“Like?”

“Like give them a knuckle or two, teach them a lesson.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Teaching one man a lesson doesn’t change the world, doesn’t do any good.”  

“No, but I could show one bastard the consequences of his actions.”

“And what’s the point of that? It’s already over and done with,” Zayn says, huffing. “It’s not worth it, okay?” 

“Was it Hoyden? Did he do this to you? Is that why you’re being so… cut off? Zayn, if he did—” 

“No! Christ, Harry, no. James didn’t do this to me, okay? It was just some fucking drunk. I’ve asked you to drop it,” he says in a short tone.

Harry exhales, stressed. “Alright, Zayn, alright. I’ll drop it, I’m sorry. I just… I hate this, seeing you hurt.”

“See, don’t do that. Don’t do that!” His hands raise in the air and fall back to his thighs, peeved.

“Don’t do _what_?”

“Just stand there and pretend that you care, pretend that I mean anything more to you than the next fucking person that comes to your home and sleeps in your bed and kisses and God knows what else,” he rants.

Harry shushes him when his voice becomes too loud and looks to him with wide and surprised eyes. “That’s what you think you are? Just my… my next fuck?” Harry asks, his heart enraged by the insinuation. He’s astounded, especially when Zayn’s eyes meet the dust mites and the small holes in the floor and gives Harry the confession he’s looking for. “Zayn, that’s not what you are. That’s not what you are at all. Don’t you dare think that.” 

“Then what am I?” Zayn’s eyes are enlarged and wide in his rage. “Because I’m trying to figure it out and I can’t. I can’t figure it out.”

Harry, once again, is silenced into submission. His tongue battles with his gums and his mind is reeling, but he doesn’t know what to say. He’s stunned. And since the first time since Zayn walked into his life Harry realises he’s altered; in small ways that meant nothing until their final, accumulating moment.

What is Zayn to him? A friend, an accomplice, a stepping stone on his way across the river? A lover? Harry’s subconscious rattles his head. All these names feel poignant and echo distaste on his tongue. A welcomed, gracious interloper, perhaps. A goldsmith to cut the handcuff from around his finger, to finally help him feel like he’s free from the chains that weigh him down.

Oh, there isn’t one, is there? He wants to stamp his feet into the ground and scream. There’s not one fucking word to describe what Zayn is to Harry because there can’t possibly be one to exist. He’s everything and nothing; a problem Harry’s created, and the solution Zayn has to be, in ways he doesn’t think either of them understand yet.  

Oh, this situation is so _fucked_. And there’s nothing he can do because he’s dived in too deep and swam too far from the beach. And in the horizon, everything he knows is sat waiting for him, but he’s slowly swimming further out from the shore, and it doesn’t feel like the tide will pull him back to shore anytime soon. 

What is Zayn to Harry?

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. He looks into Zayn’s eyes with unyielding diligence pouring from his own, screaming at Zayn, begging to be believed. He takes a step forward. “Zayn, I don’t know, but listen, look, I—You mean something. You mean _something_ to me. I’m still trying to figure it out, but it’s so difficult. Emotion is so fickle, so strange. It’s not something I’m entirely used to anymore.”

Harry reaches his hand out, but Zayn slaps it away. He retreats it back, rejection stinging in his palm. When Zayn’s eyes fill with scintillating affront, Harry twinges with guilt.

When Zayn speaks, his voice descends from a fragrant roar to a meek, distilled whisper. “That’s not good enough. I’m sorry, Harry. I think you should go home.”

“Zayn—”

“To your wife,” he interrupts in a bite. Though his voice is quiet, the intensity of emotion pouring from him remains. “Go home to your wife, Harry. I’m sure she’s waiting for you.” 

“Wait, are you…” _jealous?_ As Zayn rushes to the door, Harry lunges for his hand and grabs it. “Zayn, don’t—don’t think about her. Don’t do it. You’ll drive yourself insane.”

“How can I not? How can I not?” Zayn turns around so quick Harry stumbles back. Zayn raises their linked into the air and the gold, weighted burden wrapped around Harry’s ring finger shines in the augmented light.

A picture of Helena flashes in Harry’s mind. His wife, alone, waiting for him at home. There should be a wave of guilt after the thought, some sort of regret or bitter aftertaste on his tongue at the thought of abandoning her, but there is none. Zayn takes his moment of distraction to snatch his arm back.

“Why do you think I take it off?” Harry asks through a grit jaw.

“Like that makes a difference,” he retorts. Harry watches as Zayn skilfully unfastens the watch around his wrist and slaps it back in to Harry’s palm. “I don’t have any use for a broken watch. Keep it.” 

“I gave this to you. Please, Zayn,” he says, voice rising as if it’ll catch Zayn’s attention as he walks away.

Before Zayn is able to slip from the dark hallway, Harry pushes past him and blocks the doorframe. Harry looks to Zayn, but Zayn refuses to meet his eyes.

“I hope the next time we meet you’re in a more accommodating mood, and you take that stick from up your arse,” Harry says lowly. Zayn’s shocked eyes finally meet his with pierced lips and a wavelength of anger.

Harry drops his hand from the doorframe and watches as Zayn scurries back behind the bar with cheeks flushed angry, where numerous customers throw curses and complaints.

And Harry rushes out, up the creaking stairs and past the piss-stained walls and in to the storm of night, fighting the urge to look back at Zayn the whole way. The broken clock is pushed into his pocket, clamped right by Harry’s frustrated hand. He walks back home, befalling the weight of the weeping sky as it washes through his hair and wheezes under the stone that places itself, burdensome, over his heart. 

_What the fuck has he done?_

  


	3. the cracks in the pavement (lead back to you, baby)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: a 'Limey' during the 1920's, post-WWI era was a british soldier who emigrated to America after the war, hence why it's Harry's nickname.

• • XII • •

 

 

Zayn’s knuckles sound too loud, feel too blundering, as he rasps on the home of Mr. and Mrs. Styles.

The view is so beautiful from here, looking out to the snow-glazed trees and the halcyon lake as it flows tranquilly through the forest. The sun superimposes the sky with dusts of indigo and chick yellow and fuchsia, setting like treasure in the east and casting a serene glow across the house.

He’d appreciate the scenery more if he wasn’t so anxious about being here. His palms are sweating, mind pounding with all the opportune moments things could possibly go wrong this evening. Why does he _always_ have to overthink things? Zayn shakes his head and tries not to pay attention to the deviant strumming of his heart.

As he predicted, and hoped he’d be wrong about—and that luck would, for once, step on his side of the line—Helena opens the door for him.

She has a double-edged smile on her face as she swings the door open—though the insincerity Zayn sees is beginning to make him think it’s just a part of her mannerism—but as she sees Zayn standing there her face drops into a gape. She enforces no attempt to make her displeasure a secret.

She looks like Hell. _Hell_ ena. Zayn chuckles to himself.

He coughs awkwardly. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she mutters.

She assesses him from head to toe, her lips curling in an unintentional frown, before she looks back to his face. Zayn shrinks to the size of an ant underneath her gaze.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Harry invited me.” He swallows, fiddling with his fingers in his nervousness.

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder why.” She rolls her eyes and calls Harry from inside the house, never taking her eyes away from him.

Zayn’s grateful when Harry appears in the doorway only a moment later. He almost smiles at Harry’s tousled and un-styled hair, his youthful yet tired face, and his bare, revealing chest, despite the freezing weather outside. Harry’s face holds a complacent expression; and Zayn can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Almost, _almost,_ he smiles. But then the reminder of their last awkward and troubling encounter trickles into his mind, and he looks down for a second to collect his scrambling composure. _Will he make me leave? Will he turn me away?_ Zayn’s heart stutters.

“Zayn, this is a surprise,” he says, before reiterating, “a nice surprise. Come in, it’s freezing.”

Zayn breaths a sigh of relief. Helena stalks off and leaves the two brooding men alone in the hallway. It seems they have a proclivity to each other’s company in narrow and squeezing proximity’s.

“I thought you were going to turn me away,” Zayn confesses.

Harry shuts the door and shivers at the cold draft that sweeps in. “Why on earth do you think that?”

“Because of our last… conversation.” He sighs a type of laugh, though it isn’t authentic.

“Of course not, I’d never turn you away. I wouldn’t let you walk out there in the cold, you’d catch hypothermia. It’s bad enough you walked all the way here. You look freezing.”

“I think I am,” Zayn says, shuddering.

“Come warm up.” Harry steps towards him. “Here, let me take your coat.”

“It’s my father’s,” Zayn says, embarrassed by the cigarette holes and the dirt stains that cover the old and scrappy and faded material he’s sure has seen its fair share of pavements and floors. “I borrowed it from him to come here.” _I hope he doesn’t notice._ “Actually, I’d…”

“What?” Harry asks, his hands hanging halfway through their motion. Zayn’s cheeks tint a subtle ruby. “Zayn, tell me.”

“I’d rather… I’d rather the coat not be hanged up there.” _Where everyone can see it._

“Oh,” Harry says. “Okay. Well, I’ll put it underneath my coat, so no one will see it. Is that okay?”

Zayn’s heart flutters at how Harry knows; how he just _knows_ him. “Yes. Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome, Zayn.”

The air is still thick and cumbersome between them, but Zayn tries not to dwell on it as Harry whisks him through into the familiar living room. But this time it’s not empty. A group of women stand in the centre, glasses in their hands and words on their lips. Dressed in long and exposing dresses, with the fire to keep them warm. Their faces are bright and dazed, looking the picture of youth and luxury as they twirl, laugh, smile with one another. _These must be Helena’s girlfriends,_ Zayn thinks.

When they realise Zayn has interrupted their peace, they look over; some with grimaces and others with confusion. And it’s then Zayn remembers, past their charming beauty and their elegance, that they’re Helena’s friends, and so must be _cunts_ , too.

In the silence, Zayn rests his chin against his chest and Harry breaks the silence of the room. “Ladies, how are we?”

They all respond in coy tones, some giggling and blushing, their faces perking up as they look from Zayn to Harry; like a stone to a diamond.

Harry looks to Zayn, who’s already staring at him, expectantly. “Somewhere else?”

Zayn nods and follows Harry out into the hallway after he shuts the living room double doors. Harry takes his hand and hurries them up the stairs and into, what Zayn assumes to be, Harry’s office. There’s a desk placed to the back of the room, piled with papers and folders and a typewriter sitting in the middle of it all. The dawn light shines through the hexagonal window and illuminates the bare, wooden panelled walls. Only a patterned rug lays on the floor, in the centre of the room and breaks up the monotonous wooden and simple space. A grandiose chair sits beside the wall to his left; and in the far corner, standing with its head tall and skin glossy, is a grand piano.

A picture frame holds a photo of Harry when he was younger, in a suit and tie, looking so handsome. Next to him is a woman in a white wedding gown; Helena. She’s smiling, the first time Zayn has seen her so. A lump forms in Zayn’s throat and he looks away.

“This is my office,” Harry says. He proffers his hands around in a circular motion to present the room. “I spend most of my time up here. Writing, tinkering, ignoring the rest of the world.”

“It’s cozy.” Zayn nods. His eyes still scan the room. It’s _very_ Harry. He walks over to the desk, his shoes thumping on the hollow floor, and glances over the papers covered in structured black ink. “Is this your writing?”

“Yes,” Harry says, hesitance in his tone.

Harry’s steps rush forward from behind him and his arms stretch out to grab the writing as Zayn’s hand reaches out to read it. Zayn steps back, giving Harry room to shuffle all his papers into a singular file and tidy his desk. He turns to Zayn, who is waiting for him, wide-eyes and startled.

“Sorry, I just—I prefer to keep my writing private until its publication,” Harry explains.

He gives him a reassuring smile. “That’s okay.”

“Have you ever read any of my articles?”

“No.” Zayn cringes. “Should I have?”

“No, no. It’s not a problem.” He laughs. He rests himself against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, lip taken between his teeth. “Can you, uhm… can you even, you know…”

“Read?” Zayn completes. “Yes, I can. It’s the one thing I taught myself to do.”

Harry looks to him expectantly, and Zayn elaborates.

“I used to steal books from the library on 79th street,” he admits, chuckling; Harry follows suit with raised, humoured brows. “God, I was always so careful with them. I never let them scratch, never let a mark befall them. They were first editions, after all, worth thousands. It was easy for me to steal things. I’ve always been thin and scraggly… and invisible.” He meets Harry’s eyes, who’s smile has dropped. “I love reading.”

“Anyone in particular?”

Zayn hums. “Poe, Austen, Shakespeare, Wilde... Mostly anything I could get my grubby, little hands on but they were my favourites.”

“You have good taste,” Harry compliments.

“Thank you,” he responds, his inner self reeling and shying away like a young girl. He snaps out of it and points to the piano. “Do you play?”

“Yes. Do you want me to play something?”

Internally, he squeals. “Yes.”

Harry makes his way to the piano and sits down elegantly on the stool. Zayn follows him, leaning against the side of the glossy frame. Harry clears his throat, cracks and exercises his knuckles and fingers, straightens his back, and rests his hands over the smooth, white keys.

Melodiously, he begins to play. The tune is so soft and wistful to Zayn’s ears that his eyes fall shut as he listens in silence; between the gentle beats and the tranquil tune, he seems to capture everything peaceful in the world in one single moment, in a moment where Zayn transcends where they’re stood and joins the setting sun on the horizon as he soars. His shoulders relax and he falls back into the steady thrum of the tune, and when Harry finishes the piece, Zayn opens his eyes to see him watching with an affectionate smile.

“That was beautiful,” Zayn says.

“Nocturne No.20, C-Sharp Minor. Chopin.”

“You’re very talented, Harry.”

“Thank you. Compliments mean that much more coming from you.”

Harry reaches out to pull Zayn towards him so he’s in between his legs. Intertwining their hands, he brings Zayn’s knuckles to his mouth and leaves a lingering kiss to the red skin there. Zayn takes in a steady gasp and watches with these eyes that seem to reflect the oneness of the moment as if he’s looking into a pool.

“Before I forget,” Harry says.

Harry releases his hand and pulls something from his trouser pocket. As it comes in to view, he realises it’s the watch Harry gave him, the one that was broken last week. Only now the clear glass of the clock isn’t smashed, it’s shiny and new. Zayn allows Harry to pull his arm up and wind the leather strap back around his wrist.

 _That feels so much better_ , Zayn thinks in a sigh. His arm has felt so empty without it.

“I had it repaired in the week,” Harry explains. Once it’s secure on his wrist, Harry kisses Zayn’s hand again, and goosebumps rise to the surface of his arm. “It’s yours, Zayn. I gave it to you. I want you to keep it.”

“Harry…” he says into a sigh.

“Please don’t thank me. Just try not to break it again. It’s expensive to repair,” Harry jokes with a boyish grin.

But Zayn only feels guilt. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t waste your money on me.”

“Zayn, don’t do that, okay? It’s done now. I’ll do whatever I want for you.”

He nods begrudgingly, and Harry smiles this satisfied smile in return. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His lips fall into a frown. “Harry, I’m… I’m sorry for the way I acted the other day. It was just a bad day and I hadn’t slept and it was just… It was uncalled for.”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says. “We all have our off days. Some days, I can’t even stand the sight of my co-workers, and on the best of days I can just about tolerate them.”

“Which is why you invited them to your house for a party.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s expected of me, as the right-hand man to the Boss. Common courtesy, and all that. If I had my way I’d just stay up here for the rest of the night with you. Play the piano, watch you talk. I love watching you talk.”

Zayn grins, squealing like a girl inside. “You do?”

“Yes.” Harry’s spare hand raises to trail over Zayn’s bottom lip. “You have such pretty lips. So pink…” he mumbles. Zayn feels like he’s burning under the touch. “They look so mesmerising when you talk.”

“Harry,” Zayn whispers.

“Yes, Zayn?”

“You—”

Zayn is interrupted by a heavy rapping on the front door. They both look to the hallway, the door to the room left open so they can see to the landing of the stairs. Moments later, the front door swings open and Helena’s false excitement ricochets off the walls as she welcomes the new guests.

“I should go down and attend to our guests,” Harry says. He looks down. “And perhaps put a shirt on. What do you think?”

“I think that would be best for everyone,” Zayn mutters, staring down at Harry’s sinewy chest. _Including me_. “Aren’t you cold?”

“I told you, I don’t feel the cold the same way I used to.” Harry stands to his feet, their hands remaining interlocked. He takes his hand down to Zayn’s cheek and brushes over the healing wound on his lip. Their faces are close; too close, with only their height difference keeping them apart. “I should really go.”

“Then, why don’t you?”

“I’m not sure that I want to.”

Zayn holds his breath, whilst Harry whisks his fingers down his jaw, tickling the sensitive skin of his neck, and stopping at the skin of his collarbone that his unbuttoned collar exposes.

Harry has this magical ability to touch him in places he wants to be touched, and yet to avoid every place he needs the man to touch him. It’s gratifying and yet so excruciating; how he’s watered and yet left so thirsty after each touch, each brisk draft against the skin that tingles until Harry touches him again, like a spotlight over his body. It leaves him so flustered and reeling and aroused.

“Come with me,” Harry offers. “Meet some of the bastards I have to work with.”

“I’d like to stay up here for a while, if that’s okay with you? I like it up here better.”

“No, of course that’s okay. I’ll come back up for you in a while. No doubt my co-workers will drag me into a fruitless conversation of politics or women.” He rolls his eyes. “All the usual tedium.”

Zayn laughs _._ “You have fun with that now.”

“If I could fly…” Harry takes his hand through the air and lets it soar like a bird, “I’d fly away. I’d let you come with me.”

“I’d be a terrible bird. I’m afraid of heights.”

“Well, I’d carry you, then. All the way to the clouds, perhaps. I’ve always wanted to see what the world looks like from there.”

Harry’s eyes look so blooming and youthful under the moonlight that breezes in, like a halo around them both, as the sun falls away on the horizon. Zayn wonders if Harry can see the emotion pouring from his eyes; if he can see all the things he’s trying to tell him through unspoken, desperate sighs of words that his tongue get knotted on. By the way Harry gazes down at him, holds him like he’ll lose his balance if he lets go, Zayn senses this raw and authentic bubble of Hope burst from the seams of his chest.

Zayn loves this; this light-hearted fragrance between them that smells _so_ divine. It makes his smile feel brighter, fingertips steadier, as his sweaty hand reaches for the edge of the piano to balance himself.

The call of Harry’s name from up the stairs jolts them both out of their moment. They sigh as one, and Zayn feels cold when Harry’s hand falls from his skin. He wants to whine about it, bring Harry’s hand back to his face and fall into the touch, but the sound of Helena’s voice caws from downstairs and the fragment of realisation Zayn ran away from bites at his ankles.

“Right, I’m going,” Harry says. “Do you want a drink? I can bring you something to drink.”

“No, thank you. Go.” Zayn steps back and waves him off before he embarrasses himself.

“Alright.” He turns back around just before he exits. “Are you sure you want to stay here?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“And you’re not going to sneak off again, are you?” Harry’s eyes narrow at him playfully.

Zayn chuckles. “No, Harry.”

“Good.” Harry waves at him and disappears from sight.

His feet echo on the stairs as he makes his way back to the party, and leaves Zayn alone in his disordered medley of an office.

 

 

• • XIII • •

 

 

It’s a thump that pauses Zayn’s quiet, amateurish taps on the piano keys as he sits alone. His fingers pause mid-motion, hovering over a C-flat, wondering if he's imagined it or not. But another thump follows not long after, and soon after another. 

A subtle alarm rings like a bell in his mind as he listens. After a short silence, he pushes the office door open with a creak, and follows the sound to the spare room on the other side of the hallway.

He tightens his fist around the pen, knowing in the back of his mind he’s being completely ridiculous. Yes, the hallway is dark and he’s in an unfamiliar—yet, warmingly familiar place—but there could be no robber or thief skulking about in the shadows. Especially, and it’s probably the most obvious fact, because there’s a party happening on the floor beneath him. There’s no threat. How could there be? Zayn always feels the safest when he’s with Harry, and he knows, despite understanding so little of the man, that he wouldn’t allow any harm to befall him, or anyone under his roof, for that matter. He’s protective and alert; like the soldier he was made to be.

But still, Zayn feels that whoosh of anxiety seep into his veins, as he pushes his ear to the door of the sound and listens. Grunting and heavy breaths ensue, the faintest sound of a rocking rhythm. Zayn pushes the door open in one swing. As he does so, his mouth falls wide.

It’s James. Half-naked, with his face full of surprise and shining with perspiration under the hall light as he turns to face Zayn. A pair of smooth and porcelain legs cling around his waist, hands wrapped over his shoulders, but their face is hidden. A wedding ring shines over her finger.

_Fuck._

“Fuck,” James pants. He unwraps himself from the woman and pulls his trousers up with skill.

Zayn breaks his daze and slams the door on its hinges. Cheeks blazing with fire, his heart beat at an erratic pace, he places his hands over his chest and takes a deep breath.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. Fuck, did he just walk in on James fucking his wife? How could he be so foolish? Zayn paces in the hallway, with a hand in his hair and a grimace on his lips. He seriocomically thinks to those magicians down in Central Park that might be able to help him forget the image of James’ white and perky arse staring back at him from the darkness of the room… he shudders.

Seconds later the door is pulled back open and James trudges out with something other than a deep, resenting scowl addressed on his face. Now he’s sees bright, wicked embarrassment, and Zayn would grill him for it if he wasn’t still stunned himself.

“Fuck, Zayn,” James says, exasperated. “Could you have, like, knocked or something?”

“Sorry, I just I heard a noise, wondered what it was.”

James runs a hand through his hair and wipes the sweat from above his lips. “And you didn’t think someone was maybe, you know, digging deep from the noises? Jesus, Zayn.”

“I didn’t know, James,” he defends, though his voice holds no stamina. “If I had, I wouldn’t have… Who was that? Is that your wife? I don’t think I’ve ever met her.”

“No, she doesn’t want to see you, all right?” James snaps and makes sure the door is shut behind him. “She’s embarrassed enough as it is, I’m sure she doesn’t want you to further that. Close your mouth, Zayn, you’ll catch flies.”

He starts doing that comforting thing, where he fiddles with his fingers and picks at his nails. He sighs; James can’t even look him in the eyes.

“I am sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” James grumbles. “Why are you even here, Zayn? Don’t tell me Styles invited you.” Zayn looks away, revealing. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him?”

“I don’t have to do what you tell me to do, James,” Zayn says. “You’re not my father.”

“Does he know you’re here? Your father?”

Zayn sighs. “No. And I don’t have any plans on letting him know.”

“I might have to tell him, that is if you don’t stop lurking around a married man. 

Zayn’s mouth parts and anger flits through him at the audacity of James. “Says the man who can’t keep his fingers off of other women.”

James shushes him, his eyes glancing at the door, silent for a moment, before returning to Zayn. “Look, I won’t say anything, if you don’t say anything. Favour for a favour.”

“Why would I say anything?”

“If Styles knows I laid down a bitch on his _fine oak,_ he’ll have a heart attack.”

Zayn frowns. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Just”— James starts but lowers his voice from a shout to a hushed whisper. He takes a step towards Zayn and continues —“Just keep this to yourself, got it? And I’ll forget that you’re here, I’ll forget you stopped me from getting laid, and I’ll forget that you didn’t listen to me when I told you to stay away from _him._ I think that’s a fair deal. Now, run back to whatever one of these holes you came from, and stay quiet. I have business to attend to.”

James doesn’t give Zayn time to answer. And before Zayn can even think of anything to say, James has shimmied through the doorway he refuses to open wide and disappears from view.

Zayn turns on his heel and tiptoes down the staircase. He’s relieved to find Harry in the kitchen alone, pouring more juice into glasses. When Zayn is close enough, Harry turns with a surprised smile on his face.

“I thought you didn’t want to come down here,” Harry says.

“I thought you said James _and_ his wife wouldn’t be here,” Zayn responds.

Harry looks to him, confused. “What?”

“James and his wife, they’re both here.”

“I don’t remember James’ wife even arriving.”

“Well, she’s here,” Zayn confirms. “I’ve just seen them. James was… _excited_ to see me.”  

“Oh, no doubt he’s delighted you’re in my home,” he jokes. “Where are they? I should be a good host and greet them.”

“Oh, they’re…”

_Does he know, your father? I might have to tell him._

“Oh, they’re, uh, they were in the hallway, but I’m not sure where they are now,” he lies, swallowing the lump in his throat.  

“Oh, well fuck them, then,” Harry says, with a nonchalance in his demeanour.

“Harry, that’s not very host-like of you.”

“I don’t like them anyway.” He humphs. “They’re as bad as each-other.”

“You’ve met his wife?”

“On a few occasions. She always looks like she’s been slapped, miserable thing. Though I think I would be, too, if I was married to a man like James Hoyden.”

“I don’t think I can disagree with you, there,” Zayn mumbles.

His fingers glide over to a plate of triangular sandwiches. He picks at the side of the silver tray, hesitating to touch.

“Take them, have as many as you want,” Harry says.  

“Oh, no that’s okay.” He takes the smallest sandwich he can find between his fingers. “I’ll just have one.”

“Zayn, take them. Only two people have bothered with them, and that’s you and I. Helena spent an hour making them this afternoon and she’ll be in a mood if she sees no one has paid attention to her handy work. It’s for the sake of both of us.”

Zayn laughs. “I’d feel too greedy.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’m not used to receiving.”

Harry steps towards him, picking up the plate and placing it in Zayn’s hands and leaves a gentle, chaste kiss on his forehead. Zayn almost drops the platter. His eyes dart around the room to check if they’re alone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s here.” Harry tucks a long strand of hair behind Zayn’s ear. “Do you want to—”

The kitchen door leans open, and Harry has just enough time to step back and refocus on refilling the glass before they suspect anything.

“Ah, Harry, you didn’t tell me you had a servant,” the man says, jolly.

Zayn’s lips set into a thin line; Harry’s jaw becomes vice-like.

“Are these sandwiches? I wish I’d known you had food, I’m ravenous. Whiskey always boosts my appetite.” He snatches a couple of sandwiches from the platter. “You got yourself a servant, Limey? Does he have a name?” the man asks him.

Zayn glances to Harry, wills him to say something to object, but he says nothing. He just continues to fill the flutes with wine. Zayn scoffs under his breath and looks away—to the white wall, which seems more reliant and appealing than anything else in the room.

“No name? I’m impressed, Limey. Got yourself a good one.”

“Jack, I told you the kitchen is off limits,” Harry scorns.

“Oh, come on, Limey. I’m hungry.”

“No. Go on, beat it.” Harry ushers him out of the room and shuts the door behind him. “I’m sorry about that.” He strides back to Zayn’s side. “Zayn.”

“It’s fine,” he says in a strained tone. “I’d like to go back upstairs, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be up with you soon.”

“It’s fine. You have a house of friends to attend to.”

“You’re my friend, too.”

Zayn’s walls rumble and roar as they rise up around his chest, eyes wide open and alert as an anger tumbles over him.

“Am I?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Yes, you know this."

“Are you sure I’m not just a servant?”

Harry sighs. “Zayn, please don’t do that.”

Zayn’s eyes flash wide but his voice remains composed. “He just called me a goddamn servant, Harry, and you didn’t have anything to say about it.”

Harry pierces his lips and nods. “Yes, I know. I didn’t know what to say, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him if you’d like.”

“No, it’s over and done with now.” Zayn shakes his head, huffing. “It’s fine, I’ll get over it.”

“I am sorry, Zayn.”

“I know, I just said it’s fine, Harry,” he says calmly. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

“Okay.”  

A sense of ease flushes over Zayn as he finds himself alone again in the darkness of Harry’s office. The scent of Harry that lingers here makes his tense shoulders relax. Though his stomach is still crying in hunger, he only nibbles at the food, finding his appetite to be gone at the sudden dullness that seems to be floating around like a rainy cloud.

He finds a bottle of red wine stored away in the drawer under Harry’s desk, as he snoops and rummages around in his curiosity. The bottle is half empty, and he knows it’s probably Harry’s secret stash he’s invading. But he wastes no time or energy on hesitation and pops the loose cork from the bottle and brings it to his lips.

A swig. And another. And another. The bottle sits empty beside him. He checks his watch. 11:39. It’s almost the start of a new year.

 _And nothing has changed_ , he thinks. His eyes are glossy, not with sadness—though a leaky faucet of loneliness and sorrow drips within him—but from the subtle sway of an easy intoxication.

Zayn discovered the key to Harry’s balcony only an hour ago. He’d jumped out of the window to admire the view, realising that the sky and the stars and the moon are only as beautiful as he remembers when Harry is sat there beside him to witness it, too. Now, he’s sat alone, sitting on a blanket he’s taken from the chair to protect him from the damp floor, with his knee leant up and his arm resting across it. The last of his Lucky Strike’s—the ones he found laying on the bar, unattended to—sits between his teeth.

“Ah, you’ve found my secret spot, have you?” He hears Harry voice behind him.

He smirks. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.” Harry comes to sit beside him, two clinking glasses and a bottle of gin balancing in his hands. “In fact, I was going to show you this myself. The view is breath-taking, especially in the dawn.”

As Harry’s presence warms him, the stars scintillate a little brighter in the sky. Zayn’s eyes widen in delight. _That’s better._

“This is my favourite place in the house,” Harry says. “I get to be alone here. Escape the world, find inspiration in the pique of twilight, and all that.” He waves his hand, _blah blah blah._

Harry fills the two glasses with juice and hands one to Zayn.

“I see you found my stash.” Harry points down to the empty wine bottle between them. “Well, it wasn’t doing anything sat in my drawer, anyway.”

“I was thirsty after all those sandwiches.”

“Ah. And what did you think?”

“Of the wine?”

“The sandwiches, and also the wine.”

“The wine was fruity, far different from what I usually drink. And the sandwiches… well, they were nice, too.”

“I thought they were awful.”

“The sandwiches?”

“Not enough butter,” he says. “She’s always doing that.”

“I’m not picky when it comes to food,” Zayn says. “Anything is a blessing.”

“Yes.” Harry hums. “I should probably be more like that, too. It’s easy to take things for granted.”

Zayn nods in agreement, but let’s the quiet fall back in. It’s peaceful; it’s so peaceful that it even has the ability to bask Zayn’s mind in temporary calmness. He sighs, content. The moment seems… perfect. And Zayn is certain that if the world were to collapse this instant, they would both be safe up here.

Now what did he do to deserve this? This little slice of heaven on Earth.

“Don’t ever take this view for granted, Harry.” Zayn glances to him; Harry is already staring. “It’s too beautiful. You can’t let beautiful things like this go.”  

“No, I suppose you can’t.” Harry re-shifts so he’s sitting closer to Zayn. “You know, I fell off here once. I had to fix one of the tiles on the side of the house and the roof was too high to reach it, so I climbed onto the railing of the balcony and slipped straight off. We had to hire someone to come and fix the hole in the porch. I broke my leg.”

Zayn laughs. “Well, I’m not surprised. It’s a long way down.”

“I couldn’t walk for weeks. And the bruises… the bruise on my ribs looked like a hand-print from where the bars of the porch roof had hit me on the way down,” he tells. “Kinda like the ones you’ve got.”

The small smile Zayn wore drops from his face as he looks over to Harry and soaks up his words. He looks away, finding Harry’s stare too intrusive and knowing. A betrayal sinks in. _Goddamnit, Harry,_ d _on’t do that. Don’t ruin this perfect moment, not like this._

The drastic turn has Zayn’s mind reeling, his heart pounding. That encumbering lump reappears in his throat and makes him feel like he’s choking.

“The bruise on your shoulder,” Harry says, “is it a hand mark?”

After a sullen quiet, Zayn whispers, “Yes.”

“Who’s is it?”

Zayn shrugs. “Just some drunk who got too handsy, I told you that.”

“Don’t lie to me, Zayn.”

He wishes the moon weren’t as bright, so he could slip into the fall of darkness and be completely unseen. So he could run from this moment like he always does. He wishes magic was real. He wishes he could forget. He wishes he could fly: just fly away from this moment right now and never come back to it. His soul becomes heavy deep down in his chest and his heart rattles and raves to a raucous beat.

His father’s hand still burns over his bruise as he touches it.

Harry’s hot hand reaches out to touch Zayn, but he flinches from the touch as if it scolded him. “Zayn, you don’t have to lie to me. I know how difficult it is.

“Do you?” Zayn retorts.

“Yes, I do,” he glowers. “I told you, Zayn, my father was a despicable man, too.”

Zayn realises as he looks down to his lap that he’s curled himself into a ball. His legs are into his chest, arms falling protectively at his side, turned away from the one man he should be leaning towards. The glass of gin remains in his hand, but the majority of it has spilled out across his shirt in hasty motion.

“How did you figure it out?” Zayn says quietly.

“I’ve had these bruises before, these scars.” From the corner of his eye, Zayn sees Harry point to the blemishes on his skin, to the covered skin of his back. “People see their pain more easily in others if we can identify with it.”

Zayn uncoils himself from his position and turns to face Harry. He flinches at first, but let’s Harry brush his thumb over the coldness of his cheek.  

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hope you know I don’t ever mean to,” Harry says. And Zayn believes him. “But I know you’re hurting and, _fuck_ , Zayn, I care about you. A lot. I care about you and I shouldn’t, but I do. I can’t change that. And it’s because of that affection that I can’t stand to see you hurt.”

Zayn’s eyes squeeze shut, and he shakes his head. _This can’t be happening._ He supresses the urge to gasp at this affliction that jolts in his chest. Wounds are supposed to heal, not deepen—why do Zayn’s feel like widening crevices?

“Zayn, baby.”

He dares to pull at the strings again, tugging hard enough that Zayn’s eyes bolt open wide and straight into the reflection of Harry’s. There’s discomfort lingering in the creases and the flaws of Harry’s face. He looks pained, like there’s a knife twisting straight through him. Willingly, Zayn moves closer and takes his hand in Harry’s. He gulps down what is left of the gin in the tumbler and places it on the ground, before placing his other hand into Harry’s.

He’s scared. He’s so, so scared. And yet, somehow, he finds the little comfort he needs to keep him grounded in the calluses of Harry’s palms.

A shaky sigh rocks through him. The armed rifles surrounding the walls of his heart cock their guns back in anticipation. Is he going to do this? To make himself this vulnerable? Zayn thinks he must. Or this corrupted and awful and intimate moment may be lost.

“My fourth birthday,” Zayn says. Harry’s thumbs draw comforting circles across his knuckles. “That’s as early as I remember. That was my gift every year: a scar. And the next year, another scar, and so it goes.”

“Zayn,” Harry says softly.

But Zayn shakes his head, and Harry remains silent. He takes one more long breath and continues.

“My father has been the man he is now for as long as I can remember. With age, he’s gotten worse, like most people do. He drinks and he smokes; as _I’ve_ aged, he spends more time on alcohol and less time on me. He gets too angry when he drinks, when he misses my mother and my brother. He’ll just push me or grab me, bust my lip. It’s not been bad since I was a kid, but that’s all I know. That is all I _knew_. Until I met you, Harry. And it’s been… it’s been so confusing and strange for me.”

Harry pulls Zayn into his arms, and Zayn falls willingly into the warmth he provides. Tender palms rub his back in comfort, shushing him in such an adoring way that makes Zayn weep into the soft material of Harry’s shirt. He cries; he cries and releases all this emotion he didn’t know was bottled up, that he didn’t realise he needed to let go off. They stay like that, until Zayn’s tears become sniffles into Harry’s shirt and it’s quiet again.

Zayn pulls back with flushed and embarrassed cheeks. “I ruined your shirt.”

“That’s alright. It’s one of my least favourites.”  

Harry fills their glasses again, using only his one hand so the other can remain holding on to Zayn. Despite the tall glass, Zayn knocks it all down in one swig. 

“Steady there,” Harry cautions, but hands him his own glass to drink whilst he fills Zayn’s again.

“I need it,” Zayn says, drinking only half of the glass this time to please Harry.

“Thank you for telling me, Zayn,” his voice is as smooth as new linen.

“Why? It’s just a stupid story,” he mumbles.

“It shows you trust me enough to tell me, and that is more gratifying than anything.”

Is that what this is, trust? Is that what is so indecisive in his mind? That stone that unbalances his confidence and makes the apprehension in his heart feel so heavy? Zayn has only trusted one other person in his life, one person he inherently trusted from the moment he opened his eyes, and it was shattered in shards of glass all over him, leaving him with scars that haven’t ever faded.

Is this what it’s like to _truly_ trust someone? To believe someone in a mutual and desirable way. Is this trust? It feels bittersweet and divine on the back of his tongue. _Trust._

“You said your father was a violent man, too?” Zayn asks.

A sip of wine and a sigh. “Yes. He was. He was brutal and unkind, not a bone of goodness in his body. My mother was forced to marry him for his riches, otherwise she wouldn’t have even looked at him, paid him an iota of attention, yet alone marry the fucker.”

A switch flicks in Zayn’s mind. A daunting, saddening notion. “Those scars, they aren’t all from the war, are they?”

“The ones on my front, they’re from fighting, they really are bullet wounds and battle scrapes, I didn’t lie about those. But the ones on my back, they’re…” He swallows. “The ones are my back are belt whips. My father loved his belt, more than anyone else.”

“You wear them so fiercely.”

Harry scoffs. “You think so? I’m not proud of them. I’m ashamed of them. I suppose it may seem like I don’t care, especially when I put them on display, but I do. I do care. I was taught to show them, so people know that my weaknesses are my strengths—they taught me that in the war. They may be scars but sometimes they bleed. I’m okay with that.”

“I misjudged you, Harry.”

That first impression he had of Harry, of that man that sat at the bar with a sleazy, half-tipsy smile on his face, his beauty, his easy attitude… Zayn thought him to just be another man who thinks he can have his way with any woman, any _one._ God, it seems pathetic now to think of him that way, pushing him into a cage of generalisation when Zayn has seen how good of a man Harry actually is, how tender his heart beats. He feels like a fool.

“I think it would be fair to say I have done the same with you. We’re even.”

Zayn glances down to their connected hands and back up to Harry, who is smiling at him like he’s the only light around. He takes a tip from Harry’s book and covers his face with his glass as he takes a sip.

“How did you get away from your father?” Zayn asks.

Harry shrugs. “I joined the war.”

“Oh.”

“Have you thought about leaving? Your father, I mean,” Harry says.

“I would, but where would I go? I don’t have anywhere else.”

“You could stay here with me.”

Zayn quirks one brow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“Harry, this is your home. You live here with your wife.”

“Yes, she is an issue.” Harry hums. He ponders for a moment, stroking his chin for effect. “I could just evict her."

“From her own home?” Zayn laughs. “You’re ridiculous, Harry.”

“No, I’m not serious. I wouldn’t do that to her, not without cause. I’m not a complete arsehole. But it is an apt solution to the problem at hand.”

“And what is the problem?”

“You need to get away from there. Toxic environments to do nothing for you.”

“I know that, Harry, but I’ve told you: I have nowhere to go.” He empties his glass.

“I’ve just offered to—”

“And I’ve told you it’s a ridiculous suggestion,” Zayn’s voice raises, as he reiterates his point. “I’m not barging into your life and changing everything.”

“Change is good,” Harry mutters. “Look, I—Zayn, I know what’s it’s like to live in a place like that. I took any opportunity I could to get my family and I away from that place. I couldn’t help my family last time, Zayn, but I can help you.”

“You got out because the war needed you.”

“So?”

“So, lets hope there’s a second World War, so I can willingly volunteer myself this time,” Zayn grumbles sardonically.

“Don’t joke about things like that,” Harry snaps.

Zayn’s eyes sober, when he realises what he’s said. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice. _I didn’t mean it like that._ “I’ll be okay, Harry. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“As if it’s that easy.” Harry scoffs. He runs a stressed hand over his face. “As if it’s my choice to care about you. It’s not, Zayn. It’s not my choice, not anymore. Powers much higher than me have taken that choice away from me. I care about you, it doesn’t matter if I like it or not. I can’t help but care about you.”

Zayn’s chest blooms. “I don’t deserve your care.”

“Please, don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”  

“Just let me care for you, Zayn. Please.” Harry’s eyes are overwhelmingly bright with hope.

“I’m not used to this care, I’m not used to anyone prioritising how I feel, or what’s best for me, or if I can tell the fucking time right.” Zayn points to the shiny new watch tucked around his wrist.

“I wanted you to have a gift, that’s all,” he defends. “I want to make sure you have nice things, that you’re okay. Am I at fault for that?”

“No, no you’re not.”

“Then why are you mad at me? I’m showing you that I care.”

“And that’s difficult for me to accept, Harry. I’ve never had that, I’ve never had _this_ —someone who cares. I’ve never had someone touch my cheek and my thigh and tell me they care. I’ve never had someone so ready to defend me and protect me. The only affection I’ve ever had is quick alleyway fucks and sleazy pet names and flirtatious winks from men who are twice my age. It’s so difficult, and it’s overwhelming, an it’s all-consuming. And Harry, _fuck,_ I find myself thinking about you even when you’re not around. I’m an idiot for it, I know, but I feel your touches on my skin when I’m cold, and your words that comfort me when I’m alone. Or even you’re ridiculous goddamn accent that just… echoes in my mind when you’re not th—”

Harry leans forward on his knees, unwinds their palms to take both of his hands to Zayn’s cheeks, and seals his words with one gentle, fleeting, cock-twitching, tongue-tying, breathless, and delectable kiss.

A kiss. Just one. Just one, unexpected kiss that lingers for seconds and seconds and seconds.

And Zayn, _oh,_ he’s never felt fire like that, lapping over his skin as Harry consumes him. Not like branding and flickering flames that taste so sweet as they trickle over his lips and envelope his mouth and his mind and his soul.

One kiss.

It’s just one kiss.

Zayn pulls away a fraction, stunned, mouth parted. He knows Harry is staring at him, but he’s too shocked and devoured by the lingering of Harry’s kiss to do anything else other than gape. When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Harry’s smouldering, wide, vulnerable, bewitching eyes, and he lets a sharp gasp into his lungs to gyrate in the scent of Harry’s cologne.

Zayn is thankful he’s sitting down, because his legs feel like jelly and his mind is too rattled that he’s sure if he was standing up he’d crumble to his knees in an instant.

“It’s a long time coming, don’t you think?” Harry asks, breathless.

All Zayn does is whisper back a short and weak, “Yes.”

“I’ve wanted to do that since the night I met you,” Harry confesses. “And kissing you now, tasting you, I know I was a fool for not doing it." 

Zayn moves up to take his lips back between Harry’s, and they spiral into a pant of short pecks and long, sweet kisses between heated breaths and twisted moans.

It’s a courageous move on Zayn’s behalf to reach up and touch Harry, wind his hand around his neck, and pinch the hairs at the base of his neck—Harry moan so sweet.

“Mr. Styles, it’s not even New Years yet,” Zayn says as they both pull back.  

“I know. I just wanted to kiss you now,” he says with this boyish grin that makes him look so youthful.

 _It’s over_ , Zayn thinks. That’s it. The seed of this flower—that has bloomed with such integrity over his heart—Zayn realises has been watered, slowly, drop by precious drop, since his first encounter with Harry. And now, it’s blossoming, and its roots have delved so deep into him he doesn’t think it’s possible to destroy it.

Harry pulls Zayn’s watch closer and checks the time. Their hands sit like vines in between them, and both their legs are crossed in awkward positions as they reposition themselves to sit in front of one another.

“It’s 11:54.”

“So close.”

“Any New Years Resolutions?”

Zayn’s frown. “What’s that?”

“You don’t—” he begins but shakes his head. “They’re these, like, goals that people set at the start of the year that they try and achieve throughout the year. For example, by New Years resolution is to stop smoking. Eventually.”

“Oh.” _Is this a normal thing to do for rich folks?_

“So, do any New Year resolutions spring to mind for you?” Harry asks.

Zayn takes a moment to think before coming up empty handed. “I don’t think so.”

Harry hums. “Alright. Well, I have one for you. One you could, perhaps, think about trying?”

“Okay,” he says slowly, as if suspicious.

“I want you to start spending more time with me."

Zayn smiles. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it won’t be that easy.”

“Why not?" 

“I have to run the speakeasy.”

“Isn’t that his job?”

“Yes, but what good is a son if you don’t get them to do your dirty work?” Zayn scoffs.

“Maybe you could confront him about that,” Harry suggests.

Zayn looks to him like he’s mad. “You think it will be that easy, do you? That I’ll just tell him I don’t want to do it anymore and he’ll listen.”

“No, but you won’t know if you don’t try. Is it not worth trying?”

“Even if it means spending more time with me? Not having to sneak off at night and being free to just go out on your own and be a man?”

“It won’t work, Harry. He won’t listen. He’s an old, stubborn, cantankerous bastard.”

Harry’s brows lower. “And you know that for certain, do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?”

“Because I do, Harry. I know my own father.” Zayn huffs.

Harry’s face retracts in displeasure. “You just do.”

“Yes, and I’d really rather not fight about it.”

“We’re not fighting,” Harry says. “We’re having a quarrel.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But there is one, and that’s the important part.”

Zayn shakes his head, peeved and yet amused. “Sometimes, Harry, you say the most ridiculous things.”

“I am a writer,” he justifies.

“That is true.”

“It’s a minute to midnight. People will be counting soon.”

“You should be with your wife, not with me. You know that, don’t you?” Zayn asks.

“Yes, Zayn. I know that. But I would much rather be with you, and so I am. And I would like to be up here, holding your hand and kissing you, for as long as you would like.”

 _Oh, don’t say that._ “I want to stay up here forever.”

Harry regretfully smiles. “Well, I can’t give you that. But I can give you this night? An auspicious way to start the year.”

“I suppose that’s good enough.”  

“Good.”

Zayn can’t help himself; he can’t help but feed the insecurity that trickles in like water from the crack in his dam. “But Harry, your wife…”

“Is happy and occupied with her girlfriends, who she’d much rather be with than me,” he reassures, washing away the last of the wine in his glass. “Don’t let her ruin this moment. This moment is for us, okay? This moment is ours. No one else’s.”

Zayn swallows the doubt and paranoia and nods his head to Harry, and Harry smiles appreciatively at him. His thumb reaches up to his cheek, and before he registers it, Harry is leaning in to kiss him—all Zayn seems to be able to do is oblige.

In the distance, Zayn hears the counting down from ten, echoing from down stairs, from the whole city in one celebratory roar. Harry pulls away at _eight_ and looks to Zayn. His eyes are glossy, eyelashes flickering; and Zayn can’t tell whether it’s Harry’s consumption of alcohol clouding his eyes or some other power, much stronger than wine or gin or whisky, taking hold of him.

“You’re a little early again,” Zayn says.

Harry smiles at his playful attitude. “I know. That one was for me.”

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

A fortissimo beat of life in all directions comes to break the silence, like a birth of a new world that settles over them like finely milled dust. In only moments the void sky is filled with vibrant burst of a plethora of colours, and the whole city comes to life. In celebration, in joy, in success, and in love.

For the first time since being up on the balcony, Zayn sees Harry’s face, clear and wonderful as it is, and _God, he looks so beautiful._ With splashes of cerulean and silver and red and gold reflecting in his eyes as they go, unblinking and staring at Zayn in wonder.

And as he gazes up at Harry—for the first time, unyielding and true—he knows there is something much more than trust binding the two in this moment. And he hopes, _prays,_ that as Harry looks across to him, eyes wide and alive, he feels the same way, too.

“Happy New Year, Harry,” he whispers.

“Happy New Year, darling.”

Harry’s eyes trail down to his lips and back up to his eyes. His chest gushes, hoping Harry can’t feel the beat of his embarrassingly over-excited heart through the tips of his fingers. He glances down at Zayn’s mouth once more, glossing his lips in need, in desire, and he falls closer.

His cream and golden, sandy shore meets the smaragdine moss on the rocks of Harry’s tide, and they crash like the waves.

 

 

• • XIV • •

 

 

“Are you sure you’re not taking me all the way out here to kill me?” Zayn jokes, pushing past brambles and low branches from the trees.

“I can assure you, if I wanted to kill you I would have done it already.” Harry looks back at him from his position ahead. “Come on.”

“I’m coming.”

To Zayn’s surprise, the forest isn’t filled with snow like he expected, the hefty branches of the close-set trees above catching most of it, and only patches of snow dispatched across the forest floor remain from the blizzard that swept through a week ago.

They seem to walk forever, with Harry’s fast pace keen on showing Zayn a place beyond the west border of the forest. He’s unforgiving as Zayn tires: his legs begin to feel weak, nose red and cold and sore, and his body sweating under all the layers he borrowed from Harry to keep him warm—at Harry’s adamant insistence.

 _“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t,”_ Zayn grumbles, mocking Harry’s earlier words. He looks towards Harry, who seems far ahead, clearly fit and apt enough to do this regularly. “Harry, can you slow down? I’m tired.”

“Come on, Zayn, we’re nearly there!”

Behind Harry’s silhouette, he notices light begin to shine through and permeate the dim and shadowed forest. He picks up his pace, jogging so to stand beside Harry, who smiles down at him with excitement bouncing like the twinkles of a star in his eyes.

In front of them lies a meadow. It’s grass tall and sparkling as the sunlight shines through the opening in the trees and the sky above. The ground is covered in the last remnants of snow, but the fresh, green grass springs through into the scene.

It’s so idyllic; so serene. Zayn wonders how dazzling it looks in the summer, when all the flowers bloom and the annual trees grow back their leaves and it paints such a wonderful picture of colour and life. He’d like to see that; maybe if he’s still around Harry can show him.

At the far corner of the meadow, hiding in the edge of the trees, is a dark-wooden hut. It’s small—no wider than his bedroom back at the speakeasy—and no windows preview what’s inside. A padlock bolts the door shut.

“This,” Harry begins, pacing his eyes across the meadow with a smile of familiarity on his face, “ _this_ is my safe haven.”

His _safe haven. And he’s showing it to me,_ Zayn thinks. His cheeks are flushed from the biting cold, but something less mundane trickles in and excites his skin. His legs are sore, his body tired, and his breath has yet to even, but his mind is more awake than it has ever been.

“I have to say, the hike up here was worth it,” Zayn admits.

“Come, I’ll show you.” Harry takes his hand and leads him out into the middle of the meadow, following a path where the snow has disappeared. Harry’s feet are fast and elated, and Zayn jogs to keep up. He’s giggling like a little boy, susceptible to Harry’s infectious good mood and his radiating joy. Pure, driven serenity; like a layer of calm and oneness survives in the air and enlightens anyone who steps into its fog.

Harry takes a key and unlocks the padlock, and the creaky door of the hut creaks open. He allows Zayn to step in first, shutting the door behind him as they both enclose themselves in the wooden and dusty walls. Inside sits a short workshop bench that’s been redesigned into a desk, sat on it a pile of organised paper, a typewriter, and a candle. Harry lights a handful of smaller candles scattered around the shelves to lighten the dark space.

“It’s cozy in here,” Zayn says.  

“I try and come here as much as I can, past work and that, you know? Try not and take it for granted.”

“It’s so beautiful. How did you find this place?”

“It wasn’t long after we moved in, actually. I couldn’t sleep, and I was quite literally wide awake. So, I walked out into the woods. I walked for a long time, until I found this meadow. I built the hut myself, out here so no one would find it,” he tells. “I’m the only one who knows about this place. Well, now you do, too.”

Zayn smiles, and takes a step forward towards Harry. “You wanted to share it with me?”

“Yes,” Harry says, raising his hand to stroke against Zayn’s close, cold-flushed cheek.

“Why?”

“This space is special to me, and everything else in it.” He points to the desk. “My first desk that I crafted. My first typewriter. My first candle—I made it myself, I don’t have the heart to burn it. These special things sit in this special hut in a special place that’s only for me.” His eyes rewind back to Zayn.

“And now I’m here,” Zayn points out.

“Yes.” Harry smiles at him fondly. “Now you’re here. In my special place. Because you’re special to me.”

Zayn takes in a quiet gasp below his teeth, his chest pooling with warmth and revere. _This man. He will be my death._

“Harry.” He tucks his head into Harry’s chest.

But Harry shifts his fingers under Zayn’s chin to bring their eyes back together. After a fleeting glance—a permission slip, a chance to catch the willingness in Zayn’s eyes—their lips touch in a kiss. And Zayn melts into it.

Harry pulls away far too quickly for Zayn’s liking. But he unwinds the scarf around Zayn’s neck, and allow his lips to travel straight down to the exposed skin, kissing and nibbling. Zayn can’t help but moan at how delectable the warmth of Harry’s lips feel against the coldness of his skin. His hand travels to the base of Harry’s neck, playing with his hair and knocking the hat on his head to the floor.

“Harry, your hat.”

“Shut up, Zayn,” Harry says in a groan, and pushes them both against the edge of the wooden desk, trapping Zayn in his hold.

Zayn gasps, but let’s Harry sit him on the edge of the desk and wrap his legs around his waist without objection. His muddied boots are digging into the back of Harry’s thighs, but neither of them seems to care—they’re too caught up in the moment, too heated and praiseful as their lips meet again in a hurried kiss. Both of Zayn’s hands are wrapped around Harry’s neck, toying with his hair and rubbing his cheeks. And Harry hands are frantic; and, _God,_ are they nimble, twisting expertly to undo the buttons on Zayn’s coat.

It’s freezing, it’s so freezing—Zayn’s laboured breaths become puffs of condensation in front of him and the tips of his toes feel numb—but he doesn’t care. In the moment he doesn’t care, because Harry is undressing him, kissing his parched mouth, and making him slick in affection and lust. How is he supposed to care about the weather? How is he supposed to care about anything else other than the man in front of him who’s taking him a part, and Zayn is willing to let him?

Nothing else matters in the moment but they’re skin on each other’s. Not Helena, not the ephemeral thump of fear he feels in his throat as he thinks of his father, not the world, or the weather, or the sky. Just them. Just him. Just Harry.

“Have you ever done this before?” Harry asks through pants and needy kisses.

“Be with a man?”

“With anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Yes to which one?”

“Both of them.”

The quick tightening of Harry’s palms against Zayn’s hips doesn’t go unnoticed, and a sprout of jealousy lingers through Harry as he holds him. It’s short lived, disappearing when Zayn brings his lips down to Harry’s ear and sucks.

“Have you?” he asks.

“Have I done what?” Harry’s eyes raise to the ceiling with a satisfied grumble.

“Been with a man?”

Harry shakes his head. “No.”

The honesty in Harry’s tone sends chills of hesitation and delight rolled into one down Zayn’s back. Harry has never been with a man. He’s only ever found comfort within the legs and arms of women. He’s Harry’s first. In his special place. In his haven. It’s both overwhelming and exciting.

A seed of doubt in his mind comes to crack the dream-like notion. _What if he doesn’t like it? What if he runs back to his wife and holds her, instead?_ The thought makes Zayn’s eyes pinch at the seams as he closes them. When Harry pulls away from him, he opens his eyes, and somehow the look of need that radiates all over his face is enough to banish the trepidation in his mind.

_Don’t ruin this. Don’t ruin this._

“I want to try something,” Zayn says in a wavering voice. “Can I?”

“Does it include candle wax?”

Zayn laughs, eyes wide. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Then you can try whatever you please, darling,” he says.

Carefully, he unwraps himself from Harry’s arms and stands back on the ground with a stumble. He turns them around, so Harry is the one leaning against the desk and in a brave move, Zayn leans in to kiss Harry one last time. As Zayn’s shaky fingers smooth down the length of Harry’s body, as he untwists the button of his trousers and pulls them down to his thighs, their eyes never break their hold. Even as Harry’s eyes flutter and his mouth parts when Zayn’s hand palms over his cock underneath his briefs, he doesn’t close them. Their contact remains unyielding and driven by the force that moves, unwavering, between them.

“Zayn,” he hears Harry say through a moan of delight, as Zayn sinks down to his knees, his hands on Harry’s thighs, and places kiss after kiss on the material than covers his growing bulge.

Zayn sucks on the fabric of Harry’s briefs, his mouth open wide. His fingers skim over the goosebumps of Harry’s cold thighs, before sinking into the waistband of his briefs. Harry hastily shifts his hips forward to let Zayn pull them down to his thighs. Harry springs loose, and Zayn grabs his length with a steady hand.

Harry gasps from above him, and he glances up to find his face contorted in an expression of desire and anticipation. When Zayn kisses the tip of his exposed cock, and Harry bucks his hips gently forward, Zayn feels himself tighten against the constraints of his pants.

A small dribble of semen spills from the edge of Harry’s ready, pulsing cock—Zayn is eager to take it. And, _oh,_ he tastes heavenly on Zayn’s tongue. With eyes on Harry, Zayn pulls him from his mouth, sticks his fingers in his mouth and strokes his tongue across them, slowly, teasing Harry, licking his palm to moisten it, and tightens his hand back over Harry’s cock, and strokes.

Harry’s skin is so smooth under his hand. So red and pulsing with an adamant release. _And it’s all because of him._ Pride strokes his chest as he works Harry into a panting mess above him. His hands pull at Zayn’s long hair, and Zayn’s mouth falls open at the pleasure that jolts straight down to his groin. Zayn flicks his tongue across Harry’s tip, and they both moan.

“Oh, baby, please,” Harry begs from above. Zayn looks up to him, his hand still taking care of him, to see the inundating need on Harry’s furrowed brows. There’s a hunger in his eyes, one that sends a flame to spark in the pit of Zayn.

Without having to be told twice, he takes Harry in his mouth completely. Zayn moans around him and begins to palm himself over his pants with his spare hand. He bobs his head, twists his palm, let’s Harry thrust his hips so his cock hits the back of Zayn’s throat. And Zayn revels in it. He lets this man control him, dominate him, and take his mouth. He lets Harry shift and thrust, as he twists his tongue and cups Harry’s balls in his palm to squeeze. He lets Harry fuck his mouth until he is a panting, moaning mess of mumbles and curses that form Zayn’s name, and he spills himself onto Zayn’s tongue.

“Zayn,” he cries. “Oh, fuck, Zayn. _Fuck_.”

Zayn doesn’t think he’ll forget the face Harry makes as he orgasms. How is eyes scrunch up in ecstasy, how his mouth parts wide in pleasure, how sated and breathless and _beautiful_ his name sounds rolling off Harry’s tongue in that way. It’ll be a face he sees in his dreams; the ones where Harry lays down beside him and kisses his neck and touches his thighs and welcomes Zayn into an embrace he wishes to never wake up from. It’ll be this face he remembers, and the sobering smile that follows as he looks down to Zayn in such satisfaction and contentment.

He sucks Harry through his orgasm, licking up all the cum that spills onto Harry’s cock like it’s holy water and he’s thirsty. A sinner on his knees for an angel, bathed in light from the sun that shines through the small window in the ceiling. _God, help me,_ Zayn thinks.

Harry pulls him to his feet by the top of his arms and doesn’t hesitate to connect their mouths. His tongue delves deep into Zayn’s mouth, swirling in a motion of gratification and appreciative flicks. Harry holds him gently, and yet his hands seem so determined and steady as they wrap around his body. Zayn helps Harry pull his briefs and trousers up and rests into the embrace Harry offers. Zayn’s tongue daringly licks across Harry’s—he moans and pushes his hands around Zayn’s thin waist and grabs his ass.

“I can taste myself on your tongue,” Harry drawls before dipping in to Zayn’s mouth again and pulling away.

“And what do you think?"

“As long as I get to taste it off you.” Harry smiles, and his reddened cheeks dimple. “You’re incredible, you know that? And this tongue of yours…”

“Is satisfied with the taste of you,” he replies.

Harry’s thumb brushes Zayn’s bottom lip and pulls it back. “I wonder who else has brushed past these pretty lips of yours.”

 _Too many to count._ “You’re the only one that has mattered,” Zayn says, kissing Harry’s thumb as it circles.

“Someone is excited, too.” Harry smirks as he gestures down to Zayn’s bulging trousers.

He licks his lips. “What can I say? The effect you have on me is… unparalleled. I couldn’t contain myself.”

“Let me do something about that, then,” Harry offers.

His eyes are so suddenly sober. The want in the pressure of his fingertips against Harry’s hips pulse. He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that. I know you’ve never done this before.”

Zayn’s groin screams at him, _no!_ How could he turn down such a tempting offer? He’s a giver, not a taker—he has to remind himself.

“No, but I get myself off. How much different can it be?”

Zayn laughs. “Fair point, Mr. Styles.”

“Please, let me.” Harry’s hand moves in between Zayn’s thighs and they subconsciously part.

“Only if you want to…”

“I want to,” Harry’s reply is fast and sure.

“Okay.”

It surprises Zayn, how fast Harry has them turned around, how his dexterous fingers unbutton Zayn’s clothes and pull down his trousers and briefs together in one tug. Zayn’s thick and awaiting cock fits perfectly, so smoothly, in Harry’s hand. Zayn steadies himself by grabbing on to Harry’s arms as he’s picked up and placed on top of the desk.

He watches as Harry’s hand begins to move around him, but then he stops. When Zayn looks to him, there’s an uncertainty hanging low in his brows, a creep of a frown on his lips that Zayn moves forward to kiss away. _Oh no, is he regretting this? What if he doesn’t want me?_

“What’s wrong?” Zayn asks.

“I’ve never done this before, remember?” An exposing laugh escapes Harry. He looks to Zayn, confusion stumbling around in his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay,” Zayn begins, placing one last reassuring, long-standing kiss on to Harry’s lips. “Just pretend that I’m you. Just stroke me like you would stroke yourself, and find the rhythm.”

Is he really teaching this strong-headed, intrepid man how to stroke a cock? Harry is standing before him, looking so perfect between his parted thighs—like he was supposed to be there—stripped of the confident and daunting façade he wears, to show the vulnerable and lost boy hidden underneath the surface. And Zayn sees it, so clearly. _Oh, this man,_ he thinks. _What other surprises has he got lying under his sleeves?_

“Here.” Zayn takes the hand wrapped around his cock and brings it to his mouth, where his tongue paints a stripe down Harry’s palm and takes his fingers into his mouth. He keeps them there for a moment, bobbing on them and winding his tongue around them, and pops them out of his mouth, satisfied with a gasp from Harry. He guides the hand back down to his cock.

“You are so divine,” Harry mumbles under his breath, before kissing him.

Zayn’s heart is in his throat, like it’s the first time Harry kissed him all over again. _Is this what each kiss will feel like—fireworks?_ If so, he welcomes it.

“I won’t last long,” Zayn murmurs in a hurried breath. “I’ve already worked myself up.”

“I don’t care. I just want to feel you, baby.”

Harry comes down to bite at Zayn’s jaw, his neck, his collarbones, to the point where he’s sure Harry leaves a hue he’ll see is red and purple in the mirror tomorrow. Zayn clings to him, his hands wrapped around his ribs and his shoulders, pushing them as close together as they can possibly be. Harry’s touches are so gentle, so unsure—Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever had someone’s hands be as caring, as articulately careful, so expertly crafted, as Harry’s are.

He touches Zayn like he’s fine china and holds him like a jewel. And despite the fact Zayn knows he doesn’t need protecting, or the fact he’s stubborn and learnt the rubbled road of defence, he can’t deny how lovely it feels to be touched this way. To feel as if you’re a jewel; a painting of mass beauty that needs the tallest security to guard it.

For the first time since he’s met Harry, he realises his defences are completely and utterly disarmed, and it feels not only like a terrifying wave but like a tsunami of relief and ease. And even _despite this,_ all the chaos of their skin and the tornado of their moans and lust-lavished breaths, being in Harry’s arms feels as tranquil and serene as the dawn. He revels in this sliver of peace he’s found.

“Harry,” he whines.

Zayn teeters on the edge of his orgasm, bucking his hips in and out of the sphere of Harry’s palm that skims against his skin in the most delicious way. His legs, which are wrapped around Harry’s thighs, begin to shake with anticipation of his release. He can feel himself, so close already. He’d be embarrassed if it isn’t for the astounded expression Harry wears, as he watches Zayn come undone under his fingers.

“Oh, _God_.” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth hard enough to break the skin. He’s there, and it’s never felt this good before. _Why has it never felt so good before?_

He moans and moans, his tone becoming higher and higher with each breath, until he feels his orgasm tingling at the end of his cock.

Amazingly, Harry’s lips detach from Zayn’s neck and his head falls down to his thighs, where Zayn watches, mouth agape, as he takes Zayn into his mouth and sucks on the head of his cock. Zayn’s body jolts at the gesture and he pours his come into Harry’s mouth.

It takes him longer than Harry to come down from the colours and the sparks dancing underneath his eyes; it takes longer for the pleasure coursing through him to dwindle into dim flames. He falls against Harry’s chest, satiated and calm. A small smile works into the edges of his lips.

“You taste even better than you look,” Harry mumbles.

“I didn’t think you were going to do that,” Zayn says, chuckling. “You surprised me.”

“That was the intention.”

Zayn sighs. “I like this hut. It’s a happy hut.”

“Harry’s happy hut.” They laugh together, Harry drawing his fingers up Zayn’s back in comforting strokes. “I’ve made new memories here today, ones I hopefully remember. Should be easy enough, I don’t forget things too easily.”

Zayn looks up to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy.”

Harry’s fingers brush against his maroon cheeks. “I haven’t felt this happy in a while, either.”

Outside, the sun is superimposed by the clouds and the hut fades into a shadow. Zayn places a hand on Harry’s chest, and Harry’s falls over his.

“I don’t want this moment to end.” His fingers clutch Harry’s coat. “I don’t want to leave.”

“We can stay here for a while longer,” Harry offers.

Zayn shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know. Come on, let’s get you dressed again. It’s still cold,” Harry says.

He helps Zayn to the ground, where he kneels and pulls Zayn’s tattered briefs up his legs. They’re up to his thighs, when Harry leans forward and presses a quick kiss to Zayn’s cock, and it lurches at the contact.

Harry looks up to him with a smirk. “Did I tell you, you have a pretty cock?”

Zayn smiles, bashful. “No.”

“Well, you do.” He covers Zayn back up in his briefs and trousers and stands to his genuine height. “A pretty face and a pretty pair of lips to go with it.”

“You’re a flatterer, aren’t you?”

He gives Zayn a broad and cheeky smile, and it makes him look so young. It makes him wish he knew younger Harry; what person he was before the war, before a boy was forced to become a man too soon. He wonders if they would have been friends, or if Harry wouldn’t have bothered with him at all.

 _No_. He tries to rid of the thought. _Don’t think about that. He’s here with you now. That’s what matters._

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks, noticing the distaste on Zayn’s face.

Zayn shakes his head. “Nothing of importance.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” After buttoning both his and Zayn’s coats back up, he takes Zayn into his arms. “We should do this again sometime.”

“We should.”  

“No one touches me like this, not anymore,” Harry confesses in a quiet voice. He tames a few of Zayn’s wild hairs and tucks them behind his ear.

Zayn bites his lip, ignoring the unwanted image of the arrogant bitch that pops into his mind. His eyes dwindle from Harry’s, but Harry raises them again with his voice.

“Don’t think about her,” Harry instructs softly. “Don’t let her ruin this.”

“You know I’m not wrong. It’s usually a man’s wife who touches him this way.” He sighs and wraps the scarf tighter to his skin, the warm adrenaline of their intimacy wearing off at the conversation, as quick as if he’d been dunked in an ice-cold lake.

“You’re not wrong, no. But that’s just… that’s not the way it is. She doesn’t touch me like this anymore, Zayn. I don’t think she wants to, and I don’t think I want her to, either. Especially now I know how amazing you feel in comparison.”

Oh, it’s a double-edged sword: the icy slap of reality followed by the light and delicate touch of a compliment from the man it means the most coming from. How is he going to win this one?

“Please, just, don’t let her ruin this, okay? Don’t let anything ruin this moment. It’s been perfect, and I hope to make more of them with you. If you’d like to?” Harry’s tone is promising, his eyes playful and bright.

Zayn’s tense shoulders relax. “I think I’d like that.”  

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He takes advantage of this confidence he’s found within Harry’s embrace and leans forward to kiss him. Harry responds willingly and pushes his hands underneath Zayn’s jaw to hold him.

He taps his finger against the sore spots on Zayn’s collarbones as he pulls away. “These are the only marks you should have on your body. The only ones.”

“Oh, Harry,” he gushes, his heart going wild, trying to burst from the seams of his chest. He hopes his eyes show Harry the admiration he feels in the moment. He hopes Harry sees how he feels, so he doesn’t fall short of the mark trying to explain them to him.

He brings their lips back into a kiss that is deep and passionate and so captivating that Zayn can’t help but fall into the kiss with everything he has. They move away, breathless.

“We should head back.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Zayn’s voice is a susurrate of a sound.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to sit here, away from everything, with Harry and deny the inevitable waterfall of reality that will wash over him and make him wish he was drowning.

“I know you don’t. I don’t either, but we have to.” He sighs. “We have life waiting for us on the other side.”

It’s quiet for a moment, only the sounds of the birds in the trees chirping outside. Zayn feels this clench in his heart, and this rush of emotion in his mind, and he can’t stop the sting in his eyes and the words as they rush out of his mouth.

“I’m scared, Harry. I don’t want to go back.”

“Hey, look at me,” Harry coos. He’s quick to wipe away the tear that streaks down Zayn’s cheek. Zayn shakes his head. “Darling, please look at me.”

“No.”

“Baby, please,” he whispers. And it’s the hurt in Harry’s voice that pulls his eyes open. It’s his fault. He feels the serated walls of defence stand tall, appearing without will or conscious obligation. _No._ Zayn doesn’t want them to be there, wills for the high-rises to fold back away, so he can let Harry back in. But he can’t. This old dog knows no new tricks. He feels the edges of his tongue become a knife as it slips against his gums.

“What, Harry? What?” His voice turns into a shout, the defence being torn apart by a force to engage and disengage. “Don’t coddle me.”

“Zayn, don’t do that,” Harry warns. “Don’t fucking do that. It’s not healthy, it’s not right.”

“What’s not right?”

“Shutting me off.” Harry’s voice becomes frustrated, too. “I’m trying to comfort you.”

Zayn hopes his face doesn’t show how torn his mind feels.

“I don’t need you to comfort me, Harry. I’ve been fine on my own my whole life. I don’t need you to come and interrupt every-fucking-thing, and think you know an answer. You don’t, Harry. You don’t.”

“But you’re not okay,” Harry says calmly.

Quiet. Still, suspenseful silence.

It ties Zayn’s tongue in his throat. Curse him for being so open and honest. His mind is scrambling to try and find enough security to block Harry out, but he’s managed to slip past the gates and unlock every door to get to him. And Zayn allowed it.

Now Harry is staring at him with this misplaced sympathy and affection, one that has Zayn squirming but wanting to move forward to be captured in his arms, and he doesn’t know what to do. He just stands there, naked and conflicted and cold.

“Zayn,” Harry says. When he reaches for Zayn this time, he doesn’t pull away. “I care about you, I do. I want you to know that. I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s your father, isn’t it?” Harry asks after a beat. “That’s why you’re afraid.”

“Harry… don’t,” Zayn warns.

“No,” he replies defiantly. “I know what that’s like, Zayn. To be afraid of… of—” His hands tug at his hair, frustratedly “—You have to stick up for yourself, you must stand up against those who oppress you. My father beat me, he did. But the day I hit him back, it was like a chain had been lifted. Yes, I got a broken arm, but he never hit me again without releasing there was a good chance I could hurt him back.”

That _lump_ reappears in Zayn’s throat, and he feels like he can’t breathe. “I can’t do that, Harry. I’m not as strong as you, okay? I’m not. I’m just stuck in a loop.”

“What?” Harry’s voice is incredulous. “Are you—Zayn, you are the strongest person I know. You are… you are so strong, _so strong._ The problem is you don’t realise it.”

Zayn looks up to him and away again in quick succession, convicted of shame by Harry’s open gaze.

“Please believe in yourself, Zayn. Even if it’s just a little.”

“It’s not that easy. Nothing is ever that easy.” Zayn’s fists crumple into frustrated balls at his side. “He’s my father, Harry. Despite it all, he’s still my father. What am I to do? Where am I to go?”

“Stay with me.” Harry steps forward and takes Zayn’s hand in his, but Zayn only turns away from him. “Come stay with me. You’ll have everything you ever need.”

“We are strangers, Harry,” Zayn states, voice monotonous as he turns to face him. A tiredness seeps into his eyes. “That is the truth.”

“We have time to learn more about each other.”

“We don’t even know each other.”

“Zayn, I think you know me more than anyone else does.” 

Harry brings Zayn’s freezing fingertips to his mouth and kisses them. He stares into his eyes earnestly. “Do you think I go around telling people my daddy used to beat me? Do you think I let anyone come to my house and into my work space and on to my private balcony, which, until New Year’s Eve, no one’s footsteps but mine had worn on it? Do you think I bring anyone to the one place in this world I feel absolutely safe?”

Finally, Zayn feels the shadows of his walls become shorter, and the shining sun of reason appears in his cloudy sky.

“Well, when you put it like that…” Zayn mumbles.

“Not even Helena knows this place exists. It’s just us,” Harry says. He draws circles on the back of Zayn’s hand.

The bitterness in Zayn’s mind brings its hand down to stroke his pride. As his defences fall, he feels the urge to jump in to Harry’s arms, but he suppresses it, deciding to exact caution and haste into the situation that’s already gone too far.

_I really just sucked this man’s cock, and now we’re  discussing my daddy issues. What planet are we on?_

“I just want you to be okay, Zayn,” Harry says.

“I know, Harry.” Zayn sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry. I should have just left it at you on your knees for me.”

A laugh breaks the tension between them. Zayn willingly curls his fingers around Harry’s hand and holds him, and his shoulders release in their tense hold.

“This is a touchy subject,” Zayn says.

“It’s not, is it?”

“Oh, shush,” Zayn playfully scorns him.

Harry pushes their heads together, and they remain like that for one delicate, saccharine moment. Zayn closes his eyes, but he feels Harry’s stare still glued to him.

“We really should leave,” Harry says, after a minute. “The sun will set soon.”

“We haven’t been here long.”

“I know, but that will make next time all the more sweet.”

“Next time?” Zayn bites his lip, hope a coil that springs to the surface of his skin, laced and excited. _They’ll be a next time?_

“Oh, yes. We’ll come here again,” Harry promises, pulling away. “And next time, I’ll let you fuck _my_ mouth, like you so amazingly let me.”

A flush of arousal tingles from his cheeks to his toes, the image in his mind is enough to make his pants twitch. Harry’s mouth, around him, filled with him. This angel on his knees… for him? Anticipation leaps into his bloodstream.

“When will this next time be?” Zayn asks.  

“Eager, are we?” Harry shoes him a dazzling smile. Zayn grins back coyly. “Hopefully, not too far away. I’d like to get you on my desk again. But for now, this will have to suffice. Come on, let’s go. Despite my desire to stay here with you all day, I have work to do.”

“It really is beautiful out here,” Zayn says, staring at the meadow in detail as Harry ushers them out of the hut and locks the door behind them. “A sight to behold.”

“And your pretty eyes paint it a masterpiece,” Harry compliments. He winds his arm around Zayn’s waist and they walk together through the meadow.

“Sometimes, you are as sweet as sugar, Harry.”

“That’s only for you.”

Zayn shakes his head in an incredulous laugh. “Less than a day ago, we hadn’t even kissed. And somehow, we’ve come to the point of giving each other fellatio in your secret, happy hut in the middle of the forest.”

“A life of spontaneity is the best one to live, sweetheart,” Harry responds, kissing the side of his head. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, lets go feed the bunny.”

“Bunny?” Zayn confusedly laughs.

“Yes.”

“Why’d you call me that?” 

“Your nose is always pink and cold, like a bunny rabbit.”

“Oh. That’s why?” 

“It is. Why? What did you think it meant?”

“I thought it was because you thought I was cute.”

“Well, you are pretty damn adorable,” Harry teases. He leans down to kiss Zayn’s temple, and Zayn places his hand over the one on his waist.

“I’m not cute, I’m manly.” He pouts.

“Zayn,” he begins, scoffing, “you are the most effeminate man I’ve met.”

“You clearly haven’t met many _effeminate men_ then, have you? And you certainly haven’t seen any of the men down on Ellen if you think I’m effeminate. The place is swarming with pretty, little Ethel’s.”

“Ellen?” Harry asks, curious.

“They’re bars for, you know, _effeminate men_ , as you say. Plenty of people visit, and the flappers love spending time there, too. Away from grabby men.”

“I’ve never been.”

“It’s a rush,” Zayn gushes, a smile on his face. “I don’t get away too often, but when I do… Some of the best nights of my life have been in that bar.”

“I’ve never been. I’ve never even heard of it until now.”

“We should go. I should take you someday.”

“Why not go today?” Harry asks, stopping them both in the middle of the forest. “Why not now?”  

Zayn shakes his head. “We can’t, Harry.”

“We can.”

“We can’t.”

“We can,” Harry repeats, adamantly. “Why can’t we?”

“Well, for one I’m hungry, and you said you have work to do. And besides, we’ve spent most of the day together,” Zayn says.

There’s confliction in Harry’s eyes. Lips thinned, bitten. “Fuck it. Fuck work.”

“You can’t say that, Harry. Your job is important.”

“You’re right, it is,” he agrees. “But I’ve had a good day, a really good day, and I don’t want to be dulled down now by work. I want to have fun. Don’t you want to have fun?”

Meekly, Zayn nods his head. “Yes.”

“So, we should go.”

A coin of remembrance drops into the reality slot in Zayn’s mind. “Harry, I really should get back to my father…”

Harry sighs. “Why are you trying to find reasons not to go?”

“What?” Zayn asks, brows lowered. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No, Harry, I’m not.” He huffs, though he knows Harry is right. A tingle of worry creeps up his spine, and he takes the easiest possible route to avoid it. “And what about your wife? You haven’t seen her all day.”

“I saw her this morning. She’s busy at work, I wouldn’t see her anyway. Besides, this isn’t even about Helena, and we both know that, don’t we?”

Zayn remains silent, and it’s a sufficient answer. He pouts like a child. “This is what I meant when I said you corner me.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“I know.”

“Your father will be fine without you for a little while longer,” Harry assures, rubbing Zayn’s back and beginning to walk again. His hand is still wrapped around Zayn, though in their tension it lays more loosely. “And I’ll come back and have a drink and make sure you’re okay.”

“That won’t change anything,” Zayn mutters, voice low. “He’ll just wait until you’ve left.”

“You could always… retaliate?” Harry suggests carefully—like the air is fine and fragile.

“I think he might actually kill me.” Zayn scoffs. “I can’t do that.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Harry I can’t—I don’t want to have this conversation again,” he finalises, exhaling.

“Okay.”

Zayn is thankful he leaves it at that, but groans when Harry insists on clubs again. Will he drop this? No, Harry tells him, and Zayn knows he won’t deter this stubborn man from the decision that seems to be set in stone in his mind.

Zayn sighs. “But, I’m not sure whether you’ll enjoy it.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Zayn smiles up at him. “I do.”

“Then, I’ll enjoy it, too. And you’ll be with me, how could I not?”

“Okay,” Zayn says in defeat. “We’ll go.”

“Good.”

“As long as you feed me first.” Zayn taps his belly. “I’m hungry.”

“With pleasure, darling.” He leans closer to him, and Zayn moves into the kiss. A sweet, hasty kiss that warms Zayn through the brisk and wintery breeze.  

  

 • • XV • •

 

Harry has been to a plethora of bars and taverns and speakeasies over the city. But this, well… Harry doesn’t think he’s seen anything like this.

From the live jazz, and the dazing and electrifying lights, to the feathers and fabrics and the dance moves of people from corner to corner. And the distinct scent of cigarette smoke that’s lingering in the air with adventure and passion and freedom—it invigorates him from the moment he steps in to the busy and bustling club of Ellen’s. 

Zayn walks beside him, hand in hand, staying close as they manoeuvre around a group of dancing men and women. Zayn’s grip is tight on his arm, and Harry knows he feels uncomfortable in the crowd. He pulls him closer, kissing his cheek and making their way towards the bar. Zayn orders them drinks and turns to face Harry with a carefree smile.

 _He is so beautiful_ , Harry thinks. He had fun styling Zayn’s long hair back into a slicked back, greasy quiff, and was satisfied when Zayn made all but a weak objection to stepping out of his worn-out clothes and into some of Harry’s. The shirt is too big on him and hangs loosely off his small frame, tucked in to the thin waist of his trousers, but somehow it works. And he looks dazzling—catching the attention of some of the other men in the club already, Harry notices—with his long hair pulled back, his freshly shaven face, and his hollowed, shaping cheekbones. Even the darkness under his eyes complements his look and magnetises eyes his way. He doesn’t blame anyone who finds themselves staring: he’s done the same since the day they met.

Zayn has this big grin on his face that makes Harry curious.

“What?”

“No one cares about me here,” Zayn says.

Harry’s expression turns to one of confusion. “And that pleases you… why?”

“No, I—You don’t understand right. No one _cares_ about me here. No one is looking at me like I’m a freak, like I don’t belong here. Harry, I think this is the only place people actually smile at me,” he gushes on, and Harry can’t help but smile back.

“I smile at you,” he says.

“Yes, but you’re different from everyone else.” He glances around the bar, eyes brimming with content and humour. “They’re all just… doing their own thing and not bothering about me. No one is even looking at me.”

Harry cocks his brow. He looks to the corner of the room, where a man, who’s been staring at Zayn like a piece of candy, sits in a relaxed position in a booth; he looks to the edge of the dance-floor, where a group of dark-skinned women in lace and silk and feathers take their turns staring at Zayn and giggling amongst themselves; his eyes pass over people all around the bar, who’s eyes have turned to Zayn and can’t seem to look away.

“Darling, _everyone_ is staring at you,” Harry tells.

“Oh,” Zayn mumbles in realisation, and his cheeks glow the faintest shade of pink.

“In a good way,” Harry reassures. _Almost too good._

“Oh.”

“Here.” Harry hands Zayn his drink, and they clink their glasses together. “To an adventure.”

“To an adventure.”

Whilst Harry decides on only taking a sip of his juice—whiskey, he thinks—Zayn downs the whole thing in one like it’s a shot. Smirking, Harry orders him another before the glass is even slammed back down on to the bar.

“I think you should take it easy with this one,” Harry says.

Zayn grabs the next drink. “I will, don’t worry.”

“How did you find this place?” Harry asks in a shout, as the song evolves into something more upbeat.

“This young flapper brought me here once,” he says. “You know, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Until I met you, of course.”

“Until you met me,” he repeats.

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Harry isn’t sure what Zayn is thanking him for, but he complies. “You’re welcome.”

Behind Zayn, Harry spots the silhouette of something familiar. _Someone_ familiar, he notices as he squints his eyes to try and get a better view. _Holy shit,_ he thinks, eyes widening as he realises who it is. The sandy brown hair and almond eyes, and a wide, stress-free smile that looks so unusual on his face, looks so out of place from what Harry has seen before. It’s Jack from work, with a small man, half-naked, wrapped around his frame, kissing his neck and touching him through his trousers. They’re pressed against the wall, partially hidden in a spot where the lights don’t reach them, but Harry sees him clearly. And as his eyes flicker up and largen in size, Harry knows Jack has spotted him, too.

He makes no move to detach himself from the pretty boy in his arms, which surprises Harry, though a flash of hesitation signals in his eyes—like a deer caught in headlights. Then Zayn reaches up to touch Harry’s arm as a pair of men stumble past them and knock into him, and Harry grabs onto him protectively. Jack notices, and that alarm fades away into one of recognition. He gives Harry a discreet nod, and Harry imitates him, watching with ease at how Jack’s attention slips from him and back down to the lips of the boy he’s with.

“You never know who you’re going to find in a place like this,” Zayn says, laughing over his glass. “People you wouldn’t even guess step into these places.”

“I bet,” Harry mumbles, his eyes sparing a last glance at Jack before he draws his attention back to Zayn.

“People hide their secrets well. For some, they must. It’s a matter of their livelihood or their dispositions.”

“And for you?” Harry asks him.

“Me?” Zayn shrugs. “I have everything to hide but nothing to lose. It’s quite an ironic concept.” Harry begins to frown, but Zayn pauses him with a hand on his chest. “Harry, don’t worry. We’re here to have fun, remember? We’re not talking about anything depressing. We’re going to have fun.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He bites his tongue. He’s never seen Zayn so alight and trouble-free, and he doesn’t want to dampen it. He glances at the dancefloor and sees an opening. “Do you want to dance?”

“What?” Zayn shouts, leaning in closer.

“I said, do you want to dance?” he asks again.

“Oh.” Hesitance becomes Zayn, and he bites his lip. “I’m not a great dancer.”

“I’m sure you’re better than me,” Harry says. He gulps down the rest of his drink, and motions for Zayn to do the same. He grabs Zayn’s hands and leads him out onto the floor.

“Harry, no, come on,” he objects, but Harry doesn’t stop until they’re on the floor and they’re surrounded by a group of swaying and dancing bodies. “Let’s go back to the bar. Let’s get another drink.”

“We just had a drink.”

“I want another one.” Zayn tries to pull Harry out of the crowd, but he doesn’t budge. He stands his ground. Zayn pouts at him.

“Don’t frown, baby.” Harry leans down to kiss him. “We’re having fun, remember?”

Zayn’s scowl disappears as Harry twirls him around. Harry does these God- _awful_ moves that has Zayn embarrassed and trying to cover his face. They’re such a contradiction to the skilful footwork and poses of the people around them, and Harry isn’t even in time to the music, creating his own rhythm as he clicks his fingers and sways his hips. He takes his lips between his teeth in a focused way, forgetting about where they are and focusing on how abashed and amused Zayn looks just standing there, watching him.

“You’re right. You really don’t know how to dance.” Zayn chokes back his laughs.

“I told you that,” he says. “Come on, Zayn, dance! It’s not an Olympic sport, its just about having fun.”

Harry doesn’t give Zayn time to respond, and instead whisks him into his arms so they’re flush against each other’s chests. They’re both chuckling, eyes glinting, tongue lapping with excitement and a musical arousal. Whilst Harry’s one hand lowers to Zayn’s waist, Zayn raises his to Harry’s chest. An applause starts around them as the song finishes and the band transitions into a slow jazz ballad. Everyone on the floor grabs a partner and slow dances with one another, and they follow suit. They sway in each other’s arms, not really dancing but they don’t notice between the sweet touches and the simmering gaze they hold. Their lips meet in a deep and prolonged kiss, Harry savouring how saccharine the sour gin tastes on Zayn’s tongue.

How did this nothing become something, so fast? It spooks Harry, chills his arms in goose-bumps, pricks at his heart and leaves it pumping too fast in motions of objections and disdain. It’s wrong, its very wrong, and he’s sure his wife is somewhere, thinking of what he’s doing, wondering if he’ll be home tonight. Harry knows it’s wrong; but he’s known that from the start and it hasn’t stopped him so far.

Like a victim of the ocean, the waves have pushed him too far from the surface, and the only oxygen he can find is at the bottom, in Zayn’s hold, in his mouth, in his eyes—and he’s too low down to even consider trying to swim his way back up to the top. He can’t: he’ll drown. All he can do now is go with it and hope he learns how to swim.

“You know,” Harry begins, pulling away and resting his cheek on Zayn’s, “I can’t tell the difference between some of the men and the women in here. There are women dressed as men, and men dressed as women.”

“There’s more men than women.”

“How do you know? I’m looking around and I see an awful amount of men. Except, they’re wearing makeup and jewels and dresses. It’s all quite confusing.”

“Those men are women, Harry.”

He scoffs. “Zayn, I can see the outline of their cocks against their dresses.”

“They’re still women, Harry,” he says, looking up to Harry. “They were born men but chose to be women. These women were born women but choose to be men.”

Harry’s brows knit, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

“They say some people are born in the wrong body.”

“The wrong body?”

“Yes.”

“It seems wrong.”

“It’s not wrong, Harry.” He hears the familiar brush of defence come to land on Zayn’s tongue. “Doesn’t God say that it is man and woman?”

“Yes.”

“So why am I here with you? Why are you here with me? Are we wrong?”

Harry hesitates for a moment, before shrugging. “No, I don’t think so. No, we aren’t. We’re just us.”

“Right. And these people are just being themselves, are they not?”

“Yes, I suppose they are.” He hums. “I still don’t understand it.”

“You don’t have to understand,” he says softly, laying his head back on Harry’s chest. “It’s best if you do, but you don’t have to. It’s important to respect them. This is their safe space, their meadow. They’ve welcomed us with open arms. Where else do you know would do that?”

“Nowhere.”

“Right.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry says, his face relaxing into an admiring smirk. “Inside and out. You’re just… beautiful.”

“You’ve told me before,” Zayn points out.

“And I’ll tell you until you believe me.”

“I do, Harry. I trust you.”

He sighs. _You really shouldn’t do that._ “Good.”

Harry glances around as Zayn rests his head into the crook of his shoulder. _So, the men are women, and the women are men. But that woman has tits? This is so bloody confusing._ “So, do the men who are actually woman want… lady parts?”

Zayn’s laugh resonates through Harry’s chest and warms him. “Some of them. They dress up like women because they want to be, in every way that they can. They even use their womanly voices.”

“Some of them are very convincing…” It all becomes even more confusing for him, when everyone starts to blur into bright colours and soft fabric and cigarette smoke and dancing.

Zayn hums. “You wouldn’t know some of them were men until they take their clothes off.”

“And what do they do about the whole cock thing?”

“Well, some of them like their male genitals, and some men like that about them, too. But for the others, well, there’s not much they can do. There’s talk of some doctors around the city performing surgeries, changing them permanently from man to woman, with no façade. But very few of the operations have been successful, from what I’ve heard,” Zayn explains.

“Oh,” he says, taken aback by it all. He’s discovering a whole new world he didn’t know existed, and he’s trying to wrap his mind around it but it’s difficult for him. It’s all so new, and strange, and yet, in ways, fantastic and inspiring. “And they live like this, everyday?”

“Yes.”

“Do people not shame them?”

“Of course they do. The world is a cruel place, Harry,” Zayn laments. “But they survive.”

“How?”

“By staying true to who they are.”

“That’s very brave.”

“It is.” Zayn nudges himself further into Harry’s chest. “It really is.”

The floor isn’t as crowded anymore and gives Harry and Zayn more space to dance and more privacy to talk. Harry holds Zayn closer, leaving a gentle kiss to his forehead. The song is coming to a close, but they continue to dance, too lost in the moment to care.

“And who are you?” Harry asks Zayn after a beat.

Zayn raises his head and looks to him. “Me? I’m a man who likes other men.”

“A man who likes me.” Harry smirks. _Lucky bastard_.

Zayn’s bottom lip is taken by his teeth. He looks so shy and yet playful all of a sudden, and it stirs something in his trousers. “Yes, I do.”

“So, what am I?”

“I don’t know, Harry. Only you know that.”

Harry frowns. “I have a wife.”

“Yes, you do,” he mumbles under his breath. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“But I’m also here with you now. And I like kissing you, and touching you, especially in certain areas.” Harry’s hand reaches down to squeeze Zayn’s arse, but he swats him away, giggling. 

“So, you like men _and_ women?”

“I like _you,_ I don’t know if I like other men. I’ve only ever been with one other man before.”

“There’s been another man?” Zayn asks, lifting his head up with a frown.

“Yes, why?”

“You told me there hadn’t been.”

“When did I say that?”

“Earlier, at the meadow.”

“Oh. Well, the other time was during the war. I try to block it out. Perhaps I just didn’t remember.”

“During the war,” Zayn repeats.

“Yes, Zayn.” Harry chuckles. “Men still get horny, even in the war, even if we don’t want to. And, well, the only people in the war were men. Do you see the predicament? There wasn’t much intimate about it.”

“Yes.” Zayn nods his head, but his eyes say something different as they leave Harry’s and refuse to meet them again when Harry says his name. He brings the hand around Zayn’s waist up to his chin and lifts it.   

“Are you doing that sulky thing because you’re jealous again?” Harry asks, teasing.

“No.” Zayn swats his hand away. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“We should stop doing this. Children act this way.”

“There’s a lot of things we should stop doing,” Zayn facetiously says.

“Zayn,” he says with asking eyes. “Don’t, okay? Please don’t be jealous of a man who sucked my cock ten years ago in the war. He’s probably dead. Are you going to be jealous of a dead man?”

“No, I guess not,” he replies, pierced lips. His wandering eyes finally land on Harry. “So, that’s all he did?”

“Yes. That’s all he did. That’s all we could do.”

“You didn’t fuck him?”

“Fuck him? No, of course I didn’t, Zayn. That’s impossible.”

Zayn looks at him, wide-eyed, incredulous, and amused. “You think it’s impossible?”

“For men to have sex? How is it not?” Harry rolls his eyes. He glances over to the bar—his tongue feels dry and thirsty.

“Oh, Harry, you gorgeous fool.” Zayn laughs.

“What? What have I said now?”

“You don’t think men can have sex.” His eyes do that thing Harry finds so endearing, where they crinkle at the edges when he finds something particularly amusing.

All Harry does his lower his brows, waiting to get an answer. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course men can have sex, you silly man.” Zayn slaps his chest. “You think men go their whole lives without being sexually intimate if they like other men?”

“Well, no, but I was under the impression that a relationship like that started and ended with fellatio,” he says.

“So, you were willing to just… suck my dick the whole time? Nothing else?” Zayn asks, his tone mocking but also sober and softer than it was.

“Yes, I was. I told you, you have a pretty cock.”

Zayn pauses for a moment, just staring at Harry with a warmth and a loveliness in his eyes that Harry doesn’t miss—he feels his own chest bloat like a balloon knowing that he’s the reason for this affection. But as much as it strokes his heart, it pierces it all the same—because every smile reminds him of the truth.

Way, _way_ too deep.

“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever had, thank you.” He kisses Harry chastely and infects him with his smile. “But there are other ways to be intimate with men.”

“Like?”

“Like… normal sex, Harry,” Zayn says slow, as if Harry is stupid.

“But men don’t have…” Harry begins but then slows himself to a stop, when the penny clicks in his mind. His mouth parts. “ _Oh_.”

“Don’t look so terrified, Harry.” Zayn laughs, bringing his palm up Harry’s cheek and sliding it down the nape of his neck to find the small curls he plays with. “It’s very enjoyable.”

As he stares at Zayn and becomes consciously aware of the perfect fit of the body in his hands, his surprise turns to a new ignited flame of arousal that burns in a different shade than the rest. An image of Zayn pressed down into his bed, hands above his head, naked, with Harry in between his thighs, makes a pressure fall upon his groin and a spark explodes in his eyes. Zayn notices the change of expression on his face and wets his lips before biting them.

Harry pushes them impossibly closer together, so their lips are mere spaces away from touching and Zayn’s breath fans across his chin. Their eyes remain locked in their compromising position, Zayn’s hands coming to balance on his back, and Harry wishes, in one fleeting, lascivious notion, that those nails will leave marks there someday.

“If this is true,” Harry begins in a low voice, “you’ll have to show me one day.”

“You would want that?” Zayn asks, sated. Harry sees the swirl of alcohol in his eyes that relaxes him into his arms.  

“With you? Yes,” he admits. He cups Zayn’s cheek, and Zayn falls into his palm. _Baby._ “But you’ll have to show me. I’ve only ever done this with women, and until a few minutes ago I didn’t even know such things existed.”

“I’ll show you, don’t worry.”

“Good. I don’t want anyone else to.”

It’s true: Harry doesn’t think he wants another man to ever touch him like this, the way Zayn is. No one’s touches could ever feel as comforting and secure as Zayn’s, no one’s lips could feel as soft or taste as sweet. He doesn’t think anyone will compare now. And if he’s being truthful with himself, he doesn’t want anyone else to compare it to.

_Way, way too deep._

“I think we should get another drink, before I pull you off into another room,” Harry murmurs, as their lips gently knock, and Harry’s groin contacts Zayn’s hip.

“Okay,” Zayn says in a gasp.

Harry leads him the way off the dancefloor and to the bar, where the drink and smoke and laugh through the evening. And somehow, in a late hour of the night, Harry ends up in a bathroom stall, on his knees and in between Zayn’s thighs, filling himself with temptingly dangerous desire.

 

 

 • • XVI • •

 

 Harry places one lasting, final kiss on Zayn’s addicted and swollen lips. Wound together like vines in the back alley of the speakeasy, Zayn’s back pressed against the dampened wall and Harry leaning on to him, they connect. It’s quiet in the streets, with Louis Armstrong’s trumpet ringing a chord of laughter and night-time excitement in his ears. Zayn holds him like he never wants to let go, but he knows he must.

“Perhaps we should leave this here,” Harry says as he pulls away, lips plump and moisturised by Zayn’s greedy mouth.

He suppresses a groan, begrudgingly coming to realise that no matter how wonderful the day has been it must come to an end. “Just a moment more.”

“You said that five minutes ago.” Harry laughs through his fruitless objection and allows Zayn to pull him into another kiss.

He can feel the chapped skin on Harry’s lips from how much they’ve been bitten and pulled, and he loves it. It’s because of him—no one else has touched these beguiling lips, only him. Zayn didn’t think it possible, but his heart clenches in a satisfying way.

A sigh leaves him as Harry detaches his lips. The back of Harry’s fingers skim across Zayn’s cheek, tickling the skin. His eyes flutter shut and open in quick succession, and he’s greeted with Harry’s dimly lit, mesmeric smile.

He leaves a sweet kiss on the end of Zayn’s nose. “Your nose is always so cold.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise for your nose being cold, Zayn.”

“Sorry about that, too.”

“Stop apologising,” he glowers.

Zayn pierces his lips, before gabbles out a teasing, “Sorry,” that Harry sighs at.

“Are you going to let me leave now?” he asks.

“Don’t give me a choice,” Zayn mumbles, squeezing Harry’s hips closer.

“I think I should go,” Harry says, quiet, soft, cupping Zayn’s jaw and kissing him chastely. “It’s late.”

“I thought you were going to come for a drink.”

“I think I’ve had enough, don’t you?” he asks.

Zayn assesses the hazy stupor that glazes Harry’s eyes with humour, raising his hands to pull them open wide and closed. “I suppose you have. You could always come and sit with me? Or I could show you the pathetic expanse of my creaky mattress. 

“Zayn,” Harry’s says his name so soft, like his tongue is butter. “I know what you’re doing.”

He frowns, though he feels that quickening thump in his wrist. “What?”

“You’re stalling. You don’t want to go inside.”

“What? No, I’m—” He shakes his head, denial diffusing as the nail (he should _really_ hide better) is hit on the head “—I’m not. I just want you to come inside.”

“So, you won’t be alone.”

“No.” Zayn grits his jaw, hard eyes at Harry. _Damn you._

“Yes.” Harry places a kiss to his lips, but Zayn doesn’t kiss back. “Don’t pout, darling.”

“I’m not pouting,” he argues.

“Zayn, baby, you’re pouting. Children pout.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Then why are you acting like one?”

Zayn huffs and hides his eyes. “I’m not acting like anything, Harry, I just want you to come inside.”

“Why?” he inquires with this knowing look on his face.

And, _oh,_ that makes Zayn frustrated—that look on his face, the one that looks so innocent but is intently mocking him. _Why is he doing that?_ He knows why, he knows exactly the moment Zayn’s borders strike up a threatening pose around his chest because he feels it; in the timidness of his eyes, and the gentleness of his touch, in the goading inhale and release of his lungs as he stands in front of him, wrapped around of him, breathing with ease whilst Zayn feels like he’s on the verge of choking.

“Darling, why?”

Because inside, there is a dank and dark cave that reeks of rotting nostalgia, a place that stinks of everything Zayn is supposed to call family, call home, and a horrid beast crawls out of the depths with glinting claws and teeth that slowly gnaw and nip away at him, and it frightens him. It _terrifies_ him, _that’s_ why.

“Harry, don’t do this, please.” Zayn’s eyes plead with him.

“You’ll be fine, Zayn. You’ll be perfectly fine, I promise,” he says. “You have been your whole life, have you not?”

“Barely.”

“Barely is sufficient.”

“Today has been so marvellous, Harry. I don’t want it to end.” Unwilling sadness sinks into the creases of his face as he scowls.

“Yes, it has. It has, hasn’t it? I haven’t had such fun in a while. Work and stress has me bogged down, you’ve been my escape today. Thank you, Zayn.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, though his face remains flat and monotonous.

“Oh, baby, please.” Harry groans and places a kiss to Zayn’s grieved lips, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his jaw, not stopping until he invites the smallest of giggles on Zayn’s tongue. Despite his desire not to, Zayn breaks out in a smile. “There. A smile flatters you so much more.”

Zayn wonders how Harry would feel if he knew that he’s only smiled since they met; since the night Harry brought miniscule pops of colour into his life that seemed so inconsequential until their ultimate zenith tonight at the club, today in the meadow, last night on Harry’s balcony. He weighs the possibility of Harry’s displeasure and finds it very likely and decides not to say. _Yes, he would definitely scowl._

His grin transforms into his own grimace as the transient happiness of the moment fades away and life sweeps back through in a gust that threatens the air in his lungs. He takes a heavy breath, his palms slipping from Harry’s chest.

“So, you’re leaving me?” he asks.

“For now, yes,” Harry replies, with an upside-down mouth.

Zayn keeps his humour to himself as he flattens down, and attempts to re-style, the ruffled handiwork he’s made of Harry’s hair. “You look like you’ve just woken up.”

“I wonder why.” He pauses Zayn’s hands. “Okay, alright, you’re probably making it look worse. And you’re still stalling.”

“I’m not stalling, I just don’t want you to go home to your wife looking like you’ve been intimate with the whole room.” _When you’ve only touched me._ He fights the twitch of anger his self-loathing raises. Why does he do that? When did he become so possessive over something that isn’t his?

“There you go again,” Harry says, “trying to sabotage a moment.”

“I’m not,” he defends, voice raised.

“We’ve got to get past this.” Harry sighs. “Zayn, please understand that my wife means little to me at the most of times, and she means absolutely nothing to me when I’m with you. When I’m with you, I forget about her altogether. Don’t think that having me is a packaged deal.”

“She’s difficult for me to forget. How would you like it if I spend the whole day with you and you knew I was going back to a whole different life on the other side of the city, with a wife and a home and everything? That’s the packaged deal.”

Harry’s lips seal shut, and Zayn knows he’s got him in a corner. _See how difficult it is for me? Do you see?_

“I wish you wouldn’t think of it this way. It’s just me, no one else, okay?”

 _It’s just me, no one else._ The statement, as fickle and uncertain as it is, breaths a sigh of relief into Zayn’s lungs, and he looks to Harry to see the pure, undeniable genuine awash in his eyes. How can Zayn not trust him when he looks at him like that? How can Zayn not believe him, when he’s a fool who falls for the wolf and not the sheep, and his magnetic force that pushes him to troubles like Harry is as inherent to his nature as his eyes are hazel?

It’s unnatural, how deep he seems to be stuck in Harry’s world, so early on. Alarming—bright and luminescent red sirens that wail in perpetual warning—but something rooted into the centre of his brain in these moments makes him blind, and God help if he can put his finger on it.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay.”

Harry kisses Zayn for the last time—and it _is_ the last time, because Zayn feels the goodbye lingering in his tongue as it gently sweeps across his lips, the departing in the softness of Harry’s fingers on Zayn’s cheek as he steps away and begins to walk backwards, leaving Zayn to feel cold without his all-consuming touch.

“I will see you soon, alright?” Harry promises; Zayn nods. “Try and stay out of trouble, and use that spine of yours for more than standing straight.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” Harry calls, and disappears into the shadow of the early morning before Zayn has time to respond.

“Goodnight,” he whispers to himself.  

Now, the only sounds that filter through are distant echoes of conversations that are lost in the air, and the ticking of few car engines as they pass on the baron streets, and the resonance of working factories that reverberate through the pavements and whistle through the air. But the loudest sound in the city is the injection of adrenaline that rushes through Zayn’s veins and has his heart beating in obscure patterns; from excitement, or fear, or irresolution, he’s not sure, but it’s there. It’s there and it’s quaking, and it’s refusing to step aside to let him think for one second.

Harry is right: he’s stalling. God, how does Harry sense things like this about him? Why has Zayn let him in so far, to a place where not even a rope could pull him back? He’s a goddamn chump, that’s why.

Taking a deep breath, he pulls the creaky backdoor of the speakeasy open and steps inside.

Mid-week always is the quietest. As opposite of expected, Monday is busy, with people needing that jump, that encouragement, of liquor to get through the hurtling drag of early week. _Tuesday is definitely quietest_ , Zayn thinks, as he walks into the main party room and sees only the littering of drunks along the walls.

The whole day’s peaceful complacency flowing through his veins ends in a chaos when he notices his father stood behind the bar, cleaning glasses. A sliver of relief is like golden string in his frenzied blood as he realises his father looks, somewhat and abnormally, sober. It doesn’t take long—after the swinging door slams back into the frame behind Zayn and shatters the normality of the room—for their eyes to greet. He gives Zayn that narrowed, piercing gaze that evokes his deepest shadows; a look that unwillingly beckons his feet into motion, as his father walks from behind the bar and through the back doorway.

They’re alone in his father’a lounge room before Zayn can truly process it. When it does, the familiar tremor in Zayn’s chest shows its presence, though he doesn’t allow his chin to recede down to his chest like he usually does snd keeps his head held up.

“I haven’t worked the bar for nearly two years,” his gruff voice says.

“I know,” Zayn replies quietly and yet his voice sounds smoother than he thought it would.

“Do you know why I had to work the bar? You weren’t here to. You weren’t here to do your job. New Years is one of the busiest times of the year for us easy-goers, you know that, and I had to guard the fort by myself.”

Though his father’s voice remains quiet, Zayn recognises the low glimmer of suppressed anger in his voice and the hardening of his fists at his side. It rattles Zayn, stirs something inside him. _What is happening?_

“I’m sorry,” the first stumble in Zayn’s tone comes to play. “I was out with… with a friend.”

“A friend? Since when do you have friends?”

“Since I made one.”

He grumbles and lights the Strike behind his ear with a match he takes from his pocket. “Who is it, some flapper whore from across the street? She only wants one thing, son, and it ain’t your heart.”

“No.”

“No, what?" 

“She’s not a flapper.”

“Well, they don’t care for you, they couldn’t. How could they? Look at you No one would want to be your friend.” He points a crude finger at Zayn’s skinny body, pausing with narrowed eyes. “Whose clothes are they?”

Zayn looks down his body, eyes widening, mouth parting. _Fuck._ He looks back up, stumbling. “I stole them,” he lies.

“I thought you didn’t steal anymore.”

Zayn shrugs. “I do on occasion.”

“I hope it’s not to impress whichever whore is entertaining you.”

“He—” Zayn begins, before correcting himself. “They aren’t a whore, I told you. They’re my friend.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy. _No one_ wants to be your friend, don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise. Flappers may want your cock but that isn’t friendship.” He pours a tumbler of alcohol, downs it in one, and looks to Zayn with a grunt. “You are a small and measly and a nuisance, no one could possibly want to spend their time with you.” Zayn flinches at his tone, though he doesn’t look away. “Look at you, so afraid of your own shadow. So afraid of your old man. You won’t survive out there, Zayn. You won’t. You’ll be stuck here for the rest of your life, alone. Like me. Don’t think anything else.”  

 _It’s far too late for that,_ Zayn thinks in a facetious tone, his eyes softly pooling with glass. He bites his tongue, willing for it to stay silent but it’s no use. A match has been lit in his chest and Harry’s words ricochet like the tap on a microphone in his mind. ‘ _Try to use your spine for more than standing up straight.’_

“That’s not true,” Zayn whispers. That common sting in the bridge of his nose taunts him, but his eyes remain grounded on his father.

In the quiet of the room, Clane hears him and he cocks his head to the side with raised brows. “What did you say?”

“I said…” Zayn falters for a moment as his father prowls towards him, stopping only a meter in front of him. “I said, that’s not true.”

“Why are you talking back to me, huh?” His father’s reeking breath curls the hairs in Zayn’s nose as he steps closer. “What made you so brave? 

 _A plethora of things,_ Zayn thinks. His shaking fingers become fists at his side, and he’s afraid, God, he’s afraid, but Harry’s gazing green eyes and red lips in his mind bring a resistance into the marrow of him, makes him more yielding; stronger. And Zayn knows it’s Harry’s doing.

“It’s your little friend, isn’t it? Is she making you this brave? Is she telling you to believe in yourself so much that you think you have the right to try me?” his father speaks in a low grumble. A finger comes to prod at Zayn chest, and he stumbles back. “Does she suck your dick good, is that what she does? Does she make you believe you’re worth something?”

 _Yes._ “No.”

“Does she tell you you’re a fine, honest, strong man?”

 _Yes_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t answer. Zayn walks backwards until his heels hit the skirting board and his back presses against the wall and his father has him trapped against the chipped paint.

His eyes are as wide as pennies with temptation to submit, and his hands are palmed against the wall to try and find a gap to clasp for some balance. This is the part where he normally crumbles to the ground and the splintering floorboards disappear below him, and he falls into the cavernous void full of leather and calloused skin against his, and he feels the stains on his skin, even in the dark. 

It’s the thought of Harry’s arms and the comfort of his velvet touch that keeps the fire in his eyes warm and glimmering.

“Well, she’s wrong, and she’s as smart as the dust under my boots. And you’re more so intolerable for believing her. Do you think you’re better than me, is that it? That you don’t have to listen to what I say, that you think I’m wrong?”

_‘You are stronger than you think.’_

“Yes.”

He scoffs. “Excuse me?” When Zayn remains silent, he steps even closer. “I’m talking to you, Zayn. Answer me.”

“I said, yes,” Zayn repeats, only this time his voice is more assuring, with a slight clip in the edge of his tone.

This unexplored facet of bravery he battles with in his mind that has switched with the commonplace submission he offers feels so paralleled, so borrowed from Harry’s arms that, in the moment, he no longer feels like himself but instead a version of him that should have survived years ago.

His father takes a step back, a troubled expression etching onto his face. Zayn can practically see the anger and the shock bubbling and mixing under his rough skin. Then a grimace overcomes him, and Clane’s hand reaches up again with the intent of hurt. But in a careless moment of either foolishness or courage—Zayn can’t tell the difference—he catches Clane’s wrist before the hand can come in contact with his cheek.

They both fall utterly still, their arms hanging in the air. Zayn peels open his half-closed eyes to find the formidable shock that layers his father’s face. When he realises what’s happened, Zayn let’s go of his father’s arm and they both retract as if they’ve been burnt, Clane whisking his hand away and holding it with his other—as if he’s the one who was hurt and not Zayn. Whilst his father rubs his skin and frowns in confusion, every muscle in Zayn’s body, that wasn’t already tight, goes rigid.

The little men in Zayn’s mind that are in control of his rational thought start in a frenzy, but a part of him holds on—he has Harry’s words in the silence and his touches that still feel as though they layer his skin to anchor him.

“I don’t want to be pushed around anymore,” Zayn says. His eyes are hesitantly hopeful as he looks to his father, who watches his small gestures like he’s alien. “I won’t. I won’t be pushed around anymore.”

“Oh, really? And you think you call the shots around here?” he asks in a raised voice.

“No, I—no.” Zayn sighs, head in his hand, through his hair in an anxious manner. “I just want some decency.”

“Some decency,” Clane repeats. “And what would you call _decency_?”

He takes a deep breath into his rattles lungs. “From you? To be left alone. And some freedom.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough freedom the past week? Don’t you think neglecting your obligations is enough freedom?” he snaps. “You have a job.” 

“A job isn’t a 24-hour thing.”

“No, but being a father to a weak, incompetent son is,” he grunts. “And what would you do with this… _freedom_? Let your little whore friend suck your dick? Rock the walls?”

“If I want to, yes.” _Harry wouldn’t object much to that._

“If I _let_ you,” his father corrects. He pauses for a few long minutes, walking away to grab the bottle of alcohol from the side and gulp down the contents. Zayn waits patiently while his father grumbles and grunts to himself. “I suppose you _are_ a man now, despite the way you act. I should allow you some time to understand the world and experience its cruelty first-hand.”

_I haven’t experienced enough cruelty already?_

“I was protecting you, from out there!” The anger is undeniable in Clane’s eyes, as the realisation that Zayn spoke aloud sobers his face. “You have no idea what the world is like, Zayn. No idea.”

“No,” he says, “but I know what these walls are like, how burdensome they are. How you trapped me here like a rat in a maze.”

“You—” Clane advances towards him, but when he realises that all Zayn does is scrunch his eyes in anticipation of the blow, he stops with a gruff sigh. “I raised you the best I could, you ungrateful, little _cunt_. If you want to go out and fuck every flapper in the city, or join a gang, or whatever those dew-droppers do, you are free to do so. Go ahead and kill yourself, for all I care, probably be less of a nuisance to me.”

There’s a circumferential sting around his heart—like splintering lead—and it diffuses into his arteries and makes him want to hunch over in pain. He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t take his father’s words to heart; he shouldn’t care about the mouth of a man who would shove the knife in his front, willingly. Zayn shouldn’t care so much… but he does, and he thinks that’s what frustrates him the most.

“One day off, just one,” Zayn compromises. “I’ll work the rest of the week. That’s all I want.”

After a moments pause, he nods. “Just one. And I’m warning you, if you take advantage of this, I’ll beat the marrow from your bones.”

Zayn nods his head but doesn’t promise anything—he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep it.

“You better not, or there will be consequences, I’m telling you.” He shakes his finger in Zayn’s direction. “You get Sunday.”

“Sunday?”

“Yes.” He grumbles when he notices Zayn’s silent objection hidden in the crevices of his squinting countenance. “What now?”

“I was thinking of Thursday.” _The busiest day in the bar and Harry’s day off, too._

“Thursday.” His father contemplates for a moment. “Is Thursday a busy day?”

“Quiet,” he lies.

He nods. “If you take advantage of this…”

“I won’t. Thank you, father.”

Clane simply waves him off. “Yes, all right. I don’t want none of that baloney. Just get behind the bar and start doing your goddamn job. Because of you I haven’t been able to drink and I’m starting to remember things. Hurry up.”

Zayn rushes behind the bar and serves the two men waiting for him, whilst the drunkard creeps back off into the shadows to disappear. Even from all this way, even with the music swaying in the early morning quiet, Zayn thinks he hears a bottle smashing from the back room. He ignores it and focuses on the pride he feels swerving through his veins and the lineation of the thought of Harry coming to join it. 

 _Harry._ Zayn wishes he could pick up the phone and ring him and talk to him and hear his voice and tell him what’s happened and how he feels. He glances to the phone that lays idle in the hallway longingly, knowing he can’t go to it. No, he can’t risk ringing Harry and having his father hear them; not when he’s still sober and reeling from what just happened.

The reminder that Harry is probably at home now with his wife beside him cuts the tingle of that happy drunkenness from his system for a second. It’s just a second, but it’s enough to reorganise the scramble of thoughts in his mind.

_Don’t do that. Harry told you not to do that. You can trust him._

Zayn pauses mid-motion as it hits him like a draft of cold air, like it’s a weight being lifted from his burdened shoulders. He can _trust_ Harry. If it wasn’t his open-ness and honesty with him in every other encounter they’ve had it’s this moment right here; where he’s listened to Harry’s advice and raised victorious—as slim of a win it may be. His eyes were blind to it before, but now he sees. He sees in shining white and a beautiful maroon-emerald tint. He sees in a technicolour of cognisance and resolve, and he feels foolish for not seeing it before.

He can trust Harry. He can confide in Harry. He can laugh and cry with Harry. He can touch and kiss and hug Harry. He can be himself with Harry. He doesn’t have to be afraid of the rest of the world when he’s with Harry. He can like Harry. He can l—

“Hey, you,” A man calls to him, pushing Zayn out of his whimsical reverie. He’s sat on the opposite end of the bar, shaking his empty glass in the air.  What do I look like? A sitting duck?”

Zayn tends to him wordlessly, feeling the sudden overwhelming sensation of something strange in his chest, like he’s walked upon some unfamiliar territory around his heart and it’s making him wheeze as he discovers it, makes him frown, makes him curse when it’s stuck on his mind all day and he can’t figure it out, and the only clue he can relate to it all the faded face of Harry in his mind that pushes the thoughts back into his consciousness whenever Zayn thinks of him.

He tries to send it away, block it out. But it’s like an itch he just can’t scratch, like a riddle he can’t complete, and it torments him until his eyes turn heavy with tiredness and his mattress squeaks in the dark of the room as he lays down the following day.

 _Harry,_ Zayn thinks with a sigh.

He’s still wearing the shirt Harry gave him, because the remnants of his cologne linger in the thread and calm his heart when he’s stressed and alone and missing him. It lulls him into a quiet slumber, heavy breaths and longing sighs, and his palms never let go of the soft fabric that reminds him of Harry’s touch. 

 

 


	4. take these feathers (let me be your bird)

• • XVII • •

 

Zayn doesn’t realise how lovely it is to wake up next to someone until he opens his eyes and feels the comfort of Harry’s arm lay across the bareness of his waist.

He smiles into the clean sheets and turns around so he’s facing Harry’s front. Harry is still fast asleep, snoring, mouth parted slight, yet his body remains protective and enclosed around Zayn.

The soft innocence of his face makes Zayn’s eyes ooze with adoration. He loves this; how carefree and at peace Harry seems in his sleep, how much of a contrast it is to the wide awake, dream-deprived man he usually is. Zayn has noticed even when Harry smiles, even in the lightest of their moments, the haunting of stress and old sin still resides within the creases and flaws of his skin. It causes him to frown, but he doesn’t mind too much: it just makes these moments seem all the more worthwhile.

He takes his finger along the black spots of permanent ink across Harry’s chest, delving down to his hips and re-drawing the ferns he has there. When he reaches his shoulders and skims his fingers across the inked word ‘spirit’ that belongs in the dip of his collarbone, the hand wound around Zayn’s back reaches over to squeeze his hip.

“Ah, he’s finally awoken from his nocturnal slumber,” Zayn says in a light voice.

With his eyes still closed, Harry grins wide. “You make me sound like some sort of creature.”

“Quite the opposite.” Zayn traces the outline of Harry’s lips and he gushes when Harry places a gentle kiss to his fingertip. _Angel._ “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Harry says in a groggy voice.

Zayn bites his lip at how sultry he finds the sound of Harry’s voice so early in the morning. He ignores the twitch in his groin and leans in to kiss Harry.

“You know, it’s been far too long,” he says.  

Harry has his eyes open, flickering still to adjust to the morning dusk that sweeps the room. “Too long since what?”

“Since you last kissed me.”

“I kissed you last night,” Harry says. He rolls them over, so Zayn is underneath and Harry is leaning over him. “I kissed you for an awful long time, if I remember correctly.”

Zayn hums. “In all the right places.” 

“And every inch of you tastes exquisite.” Harry dips down to take another kiss from him. “I’d love to explore your body again, Zayn.”

Zayn releases a quiet gasp as Harry’s hand delves down between Zayn’s thighs, where his cock is sturdy and waiting to be touched in his early morning arousal. “Please do.”

“Oh, I think I might have to.” He bites at Zayn’s jaw. “How could I leave you like this when you’re already so wound up?”

Oh, he loves this, too _. God,_ he adores this. This playful and naughty attitude. How could he not? Harry’s touches are far too provocative and tempting to ever resist. Zayn makes a bid in his mind to allow Harry to touch him anytime he wants, if it will feel this good every time.

“Oh, Harry,” Zayn says in a moan. He bucks his hips up to meet Harry’s movements as he’s taken within his heavenly grip.

They shift, so Harry is fully on him and sliding down Zayn’s torso, right between the expanse of his thighs as Harry parts them to do as he pleases. He kneels there, leaving wet kisses down Zayn’s naval, tickling the hairs that grow there, and teasing him as he edges closer and closer to the place Zayn _truly_ wants him to be.

Zayn wriggles his hand into Harry’s hair and finds a steady grip, whilst his other hand reaches up to grab the metal-framed headboard behind them.

“You have the cutest little mole, just below your hip bone,” Harry says, puckering his lips over the spot.

“Harry,” he pines.

“There’s no rush, darling.” His hand continues to stroke Zayn; slow, _painfully_ slow, whilst his lips consume every inch of skin they can reach. He looks up at Zayn with a vivacious look in his eyes, and back down his skin with this _awe_ that makes Zayn’s whole body writhe in embarrassing need. “You are so lovely, Zayn. So fucking hot.”

“Please, Harry,” Zayn says in a pant. “I’m shaking like a leaf.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he says, before dipping his down in between Zayn’s thighs and taking him in his mouth.

And Zayn moans. He really moans: _fortissimo;_ loud enough for the birds and the bees outside to hear; loud enough for the walls to tremor in surprise of his passion. And he loves the fact that he can. He revels in the complete fact that he can be as loud as he wants because they’re alone—and he knows Harry adores it.

It’s just him and Harry—Harry and him. With no _bitch_ they have to sneak and skulk around in order to steal a quick kiss, or a touch of a cheek.

It’s just them.

“Angel,” Zayn whines out, tugging at Harry’s hair and making him moan.

Harry looks so beautiful like this; between his thighs, legs hanging off the bed and thrusting into the sheets to find some release himself. He holds Zayn’s restless hips down with his grip, using only his mouth to help Zayn climb higher to his summit. He takes Zayn all the way, to the back of his throat and gags; Zayn cries out.

He feels that familiar weakness in his legs that tells him his release is closing in. In the last moments, Harry lets Zayn thrust up into his mouth and take control. He readjusts himself onto his knees and holds Zayn’s waist up with one hand, so they hover just above the bed, squeezing his arse and pushing himself down onto Zayn, whilst his other hand falls down to his own cock and eases his tight skin.

Zayn comes with a cry of Harry’s name, over and over again, until he falls back down to Earth, back down to reality, where Harry lets him release into the back of his throat and ride out his high, accepting all of him with a moan of his own satisfaction. He drops him back down onto the bed and climbs up him. Zayn’s hand replaces Harry’s around his cock.

“You don’t have to do that, baby,” Harry says.

Zayn can tell by the shortness of Harry’s breath and the clench in his jaw that he isn’t far off himself. He continues to stroke, flicking his thumb across Harry’s skin in a way he knows he likes.

“Stop being so polite,” Zayn playfully scorns. “I want to.”

Harry leans down to kiss Zayn. It’s a sloppy, tongue-zealous, impatient kiss filled with lust and, _fuck,_ that always leaves Zayn wanting to taste more. It leaves him thirsty and begging. _Harry_ leaves him begging.

They break away as Harry confesses he’s on the edge, and Zayn’s lips find their way to his neck to suckle on his skin. He leaves hot pants of relief in Zayn’s ears as he orgasms, letting his weight fall on to him. Zayn winds his hand into the slight dampness on the nape of Harry’s neck and strokes his hair. He leaves a gentle kiss on Harry’s temple, unable to suppress his affection, or his need of contact to satisfy the moment.

“I believe that is the best way to wake up in the morning,” Harry says after a few minutes of wind-down quiet.

He reaches for the edge of the sheet and wipes away the residue of their sex that’s smeared over both of their chests. He takes his sweet time brushing over Zayn’s torso, kissing every part of it he can, before Zayn pulls him back up to his lips in impatience. He lies back down on Zayn’s chest and stares up at him through his sedated, sleepy lashes.

“I believe I have to agree with you,” Zayn murmurs, entranced.

Harry’s cheeks are flushed red, hair wild, eyes sparkling with livened spirit—that bright burn they hold after passion dims into content, after they pull away from a kiss; one that warms Zayn from the coldness of winter that bangs on the window pane outside.

“Even being next to you. It’s like I haven’t woken up yet, when I look over and see you lying beside me.” Harry draws circles into Zayn’s chest, around his nipples, down to his naval, and all the way back up to his chin, where he tickles the soft hairs growing there. “I like this.”

“My beard?”

“Yes.” He hums. “It’s very attractive. It gives you an extra… quality.”

“Well, I was going to shave it, but I guess I can’t now.”

“I love it,” he confesses. “Especially when it brushes against my cheeks, my chest, my thighs…”

“Then I’ll keep it.”

“Good.” Harry smiles at him, and Zayn returns it. “Thank you for staying here with me. I sleep better with you near me.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“You’re welcome. Breakfast?”

“No, not yet.” Zayn wraps his arms around Harry tighter and kisses his forehead. “I’d like to stay here a little while longer, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” he says, squeezing Zayn’s hip as his hand travels down to play with the short hairs leading to his groin. “Although, I would like to feed you soon. Put some fat on these bones of yours.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, Harry.”

“For now. You’re so thin… I want to butter you all up,” Harry says. He presses light kisses all over Zayn’s chest and collarbones.

“Butter me up?” Zayn repeats with a laugh. “Don’t you think you’ve buttered me up enough? My shirt is tighter on me now than it was last month.”

“You have gained weight…” he agrees. “But I’d like you to put on more. You’re so thin, baby.”

“I know, Harry.”

“I still think you’re sexy as hell, if you were doubting it.”

“How could I doubt it when you treat me like this in the mornings?”

“I don’t want you thinking I don’t care, Zayn. I do. I really do,” he says.

“I know, Harry.” Zayn leans down to land  kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”

Harry lays his head back down on Zayn’s chest. They lie there for a while, just enjoying the warmth and the peace both of them bring to create the reckless and succumbed synergy in the room. The brisk of wind that unsettles the curtains from the open window allows a draft into the room that brings them closer together.

The room feels so light, so feather light and tranquil. With the white curtains, and the bright walls, and the open space, and the beautiful view that lies waiting from them behind the window pane: an indubitable contrast to the crumbling, sombre walls of his room back at the speakeasy. No windows, no light, no companion apart from the rats that come to chew at the walls and the end of his boots.

But this… this, right now, is his dream. This, as Zayn looks around and glazes his eyes over the extravagance of Harry’s room—the grand mirror and solid oak furniture and crystal light shade—this is luxury. And he gets to experience it in Harry’s arms.

“Thank God for Helena’s night shifts,” Zayn breaks the silence in a mumble.

He feels Harry nod against his chest. “Thank God, indeed.”

“Why did she decide to take them again?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps she wanted to get away from me. I guess that would make two of us.” Harry jokes. “It’s not a conventional marriage, is it?”

“No. No, it isn’t, not that I mind. It’s quite beneficial.” Zayn sighs contently. “When do you think she’ll be back?”

“I’m not sure about that, either.”

“Not conventional, _at all._ ”

They both laugh together, before Harry sits up, yawning and stretching, and pulls his briefs back on.

“I prefer you in less clothes,” Zayn drawls.

“I bet you do.” Harry turns around with a smirk tickling the edges of his lips. “You know, Thursday has become my favourite day of the week.”

“Mine, too.” Zayn leans up with a smile and connects their lips again. Harry tries to pull away, but Zayn brings him back in greedily.

“Right. Let me go and I’ll go make breakfast,” Harry says in short breaks through the kisses, but he makes no move to pull out of Zayn’s grasp.

“Okay,” Zayn responds, but he doesn’t move away either.

They fall down onto the bed again, wrapped back around each other like the vines creeping up the side of the house, and consume one another in lust-lavished kisses and profligate touches.

It’s strange, how Zayn sits down at the kitchen table to eat breakfast with Harry, holding his hand the entire time, until they finally have to break away; how Harry flees away to his study to work and Zayn enjoys a long, invested shower in a bathroom that isn’t even his; how Zayn learns to boil the kettle and brings him cups of tea every so often—two sugars, lemon and honey, not even stopping for a moment to consider how odd it is that he knows that’s the way Harry likes it—so he doesn’t get thirsty, and Harry steals cheeky kisses and grabs before he’s left alone again; how Zayn sits in the living room, flicking through Harry’s first editions and getting lost in worlds of Darcy and Hemingway, and revelling in every moment of it. How it’s been the same every Thursday for the past six weeks, and it’s all become this unusual, censurable routine that neither of them seem to care enough about to break.

Zayn knows it’s wrong—the short, yet booming voice in the back of his head only letting him forget in brief moments of leisure, and pleasure, and les jeux.

He knocks on Harry’s study before he comes in, balancing a cup of tea in one hand and a book he can’t look away from in the other. The comforting click of Harry’s typewriters invades him, and he finds himself smiling in a lack of realisation. He places Harry’s cup of tea on the end of his desk and sits down on the small piano stool. When he closes his book and looks up, Harry is already staring at him, smiling in that boyish way he does that makes Zayn’s heart vroom in his chest.

“Thank you, darling.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What are you reading today?”

“Dorian Gray.”

“Ah. Has he become twisted and demonic yet?”

“He just murdered Basil. I liked Basil. I despise Harry.”

“That’s not very nice, I haven’t done a thing,” Harry jokes, taking a sip of his tea.

“This book is infuriating, and yet I can’t look away.”

“Books are usually like that.”

“I know.” He smiles. “How are your own words coming along?”

Harry groans. “I’d rather shoot myself in the head, right now.”

“Don’t say that.” Zayn comes to stand behind him and leaves a kiss to his hair, massaging his shoulders. “What are you having trouble with?”

“Everything,” he says, through a moan of pleasure at Zayn’s soothing rubs. “I have the ideas in my mind but the words don’t seem compatible in my hand. It’s like a connection has been lost between the two.”

“Perhaps you should take a break. Over-working your mind won’t do you any favours,” Zayn suggests. “You’ve been up here for hours.”

“And yet, I have nothing to show for it.” He throws his pen down onto the table in frustration, sighing. “I’ve lost inspiration.”

“Any ideas on how to get it back?”

“I have a few,” Harry muses. When Zayn leans down onto his neck, Harry turns to kiss his cheek. He leaves pecks anywhere he can reach. “They involve you.”

“Oh?” Zayn giggles.

Harry hums. “And a bed. And rumpled sheets all around us. Just us.”

“Mr. Styles, what are you implying?”

“Oh, I think you know.” He bites at Zayn’s ear.

Zayn knows exactly what he’s talking about. Between Harry’s subtle gestures and his seriocomic implications, he’s thought quite a lot about it himself.

Harry and he, underneath the sheets, high in each other and yet grounded by affectionate touches and caring declarations. Pure and utter privacy, in the brightness of the dawn: being so exposed, so connected in a way that couldn’t physically bring them any closer together.

Could he do that? Could Zayn be so intimate with Harry in that way? He’d have to give himself to Harry completely and hope that he would do the same in return.

In a physical sense, Zayn is ready for this. He’s ready to be Harry’s in that way. It’s not like he’s never done this before, it’s not that he’s never been intimate with a man, but it’s everything else. It’s so different with him. Harry hasn’t ever discarded him like a piece of trash after their times together, Harry hasn’t ever made him feel like he’s less than he is—in fact, he thinks Harry makes him feel like more, like he’s worth something.

Zayn is willing to give his body to Harry, so why is this so difficult for him to wrap his mind around?

One word springs into his mind; one detrimental, aggravatingly reminding name. Because somehow, even in the most peaceful of moments, she’s the rock that is thrown into the river to unsettle the placid of the lake, and send the disastrous waves of doubt to ripple through Zayn’s mind.

It’s the good part of him, he thinks. Despite how devious and wrong the situation between him and Harry is, it’s the kind and decent and moral arrow in him that always centres and grounds him back to where he should be, even if it’s not where he wants to be.

She may be rude and arrogant and she may treat him like he’s dirt, and she may be the single, oppressive boom that lead Harry into Zayn’s arms in the first place, but Helena is still Harry’s.

She is the one thing, the one reminder that _burns_ Zayn’s skin and leaves him marred, that Zayn will never truly be: Harry’s partner. His wife. His love. His forever.

There’s this twist, this deep grinding of his bones down in his chest that makes him feel sick; a tormenting throb down in his chest that warns him, that sways him from what he wants. And he’s not ready to find out what that is yet.

Zayn ignores that pang in his chest that ignites again, like a chest infection that closes up his throat, when he reminds himself of what the situation truly is too much. He focuses his attention back down to Harry and he grins.

Is he ready to be this way with Harry?

“Not yet,” Zayn tells him after a pause. He leaves a kiss on Harry’s lips to ease the rejection. “And definitely not today. I suspect Helena will be arriving home soon.”

“What time is it?”

“10am.”

“You’re right, she may be. From what I’ve interpreted of her schedule, she normally arrives back home any time between now and noon,” Harry explains. “I think she sometimes goes with her friends for lunch at the Stillsway after work.”

“The Stillsway?”

“An establishment in the city. It’s where the ladies go to catch up and gossip about the finest bachelor’s around, and talk about one another, I assume. Women do that a lot.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You’d know it if you saw it. It’s expensive,” Harry mutters. He lets his head roll back against Zayn’s chest, as Zayn stands back to normal height.

“Harry, can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can, baby.”

“Why does Helena have a job when you’re so wealthy?” He asks, before elaborating. “I mean, your income seems like it’ll enough for both of you… for the rest of your lives.”

“Well, she doesn’t need to work, you’re right, and I’ve told her that in the past. But I think it gives her a sense of independence, it makes her feel involved, too. All of her friends have jobs, so she thought it fitting to get one, too. They all work in the same factory, you see.”

“Oh.”

“And I wouldn’t consider myself wealthy. Although, you’re right, the money I make is enough to sustain my wife and I, and a family, if needs be.”

“I think you and I have different ideas of what wealth is,” Zayn says, scoffing, as he looks around the room at the clean and perfect interior, the grand piano’s; as he recounts the pieces of affluent furniture scattered across the house, the perfect condition of every item, the sparkling chandeliers, the dazzling opulent atmosphere it all creates…

 _The ignorance of the wealthy,_ Zayn thinks.

“Yes, you’re right. You’re always right.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

Harry stands to his feet and pushes his chair aside to sit on the edge of the desk, so he can pull Zayn in between his legs. Zayn rests his arms over Harry’s shoulders like he always does and leans into him.

“It is true. You’re so smart, and you don’t even realise.”

“I’m not smart, Harry. I’ve never had a day of education in my life.”

Harry frowns. “Intelligence doesn’t just come from school, Zayn. Books don’t hold the secret to the universe. I bet you know more about the world than the next rich wanker, and I bet you can read better than half of them, too.”

“Harry.” Zayn laughs.  

“It’s true, darling. Believe in yourself a little more.” He folds a piece of Zayn’s hair behind his ears and smiles at him reassuringly.

“That’s easier said than done,” he says.

“I know. That’s what I’m here for, yeah?” Zayn nods, and Harry kisses the small frown away from his lips. “Good.”

Harry embraces him in a hug. Zayn rests his chin back on Harry’s shoulder and holds him tightly, like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat. They stay there for a minute, two—Zayn can’t tell. All he knows, is it’s cold outside and warm in Harry’s arms.

It’s Zayn that breaks away from the hug first, when his eyes flutter open and they trail down to the scattering of Harry’s notes along the desk, and find one, as accidentally as it is, that holds his name in cursive writing, and next to it, his father’s name, too. His brows knit together as he stares at it, unable to see what the rest of the sentence is as it’s blocked by other papers.

“What is it?” Harry asks, as Zayn leans out of the hold.

Zayn reaches out to grab the piece of paper that’s captured his attention. But, when it’s in his grasp, before he even has time to read what’s written on the paper, it’s snatched away by Harry.

“I didn’t say you could read this,” Harry teases, though his tone is serious.

“It has my name on it,” Zayn points out.

Harry shuffles the piece of paper back into the bottom of the pile. “I know.”

“Why does it have my name on it?”

“It’s for the piece I told you about, about the speakeasy.”

“You haven’t written it yet?”

“No. I’ve had other pieces to work on, pieces that are more important.”

“I thought we agreed no names.” Zayn narrows his eyes at him.

“Yes, on the article. These are just my notes, Zayn. No one sees them,” Harry says.

But Zayn doesn’t feel reassured, and the sudden tight expression on Harry’s face does no favours in persuading him.

“I saw my father’s name on there, too,” Zayn says.

“Yes, because he owns the place, Zayn,” Harry retaliates, rolling his eyes.

“But why would you need his name if we agreed—”

“It’s just a list of my fucking notes, Zayn. Why is this a problem?” Harry snaps.

In a second, his eyes glimmer with frustration and simmer back down to their usual shade of green. But it’s that one second, that raise in the tone of his voice, that makes Zayn’s heart jolt in his chest.

He takes a step back, weary. “Why are you being short with me all of a sudden?”

Harry sighs. “I’m not being short with you, darling.”

“Yes, you are,” Zayn argues. “Why won’t you let me read it?”

“Because it’s my work.”

“But you said it was just notes.”

“There’s no difference, Zayn. I don’t let anyone read my notes or my work, not until it’s published. You can ask Helena.”

“I’d rather not,” he grumbles.

“Precisely,” he says, gesturing his hands in an exasperated manner. “So just take my word for it, please. You trust me, don’t you?”

Although Zayn his hesitant, he lets Harry take his hand and soothe it with his own.

“Zayn, you trust me, yes?” Harry repeats.

He trusts Harry, yes he does. Of course he does. He nods, though in this moment he’s not sure of himself.

“Okay,” Harry says, softer this time—perhaps now only realising that he’s startled Zayn. “Then please trust me when I say it’s nothing. It is just some harmless, untidy notes that I haven’t got round to using yet. I wrote them in the bar, you were there watching me.”

“Yes, but I didn’t see what you wrote,” Zayn says. “If you aren’t going to let me read them, at least tell me some of what it says?”

“Well, they’re just… notes.” Harry shrugs. “Most of them presumably useless, but it’s handy to have them, especially when I’m scrambling for ideas. They mainly entail depictions of the people I’ve seen in there, drinks, the prices, the interior, boring things. My most useful source of information is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He taps Zayn’s nose, smiling when Zayn flicks him away. “You know the ins and outs of the place. Who better to ask for information?”

“I suppose your right,” Zayn admits, though he’s still speculative.

“It’s nothing to worry about, my darling,” Harry reassures, placing a kiss to his cheek. “Okay?”

“Yes.” He nods.

“Good.” Harry kisses him and pulls him back to his chest. He pulls away when he feels Zayn’s hands becoming too frisky in his hair. “I better take you home.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“I know you don’t. And I’d keep you here if it was up to me.”

Zayn pulls away, furrowing his brows. “It _is_ up to you.”

“You know what I mean, Zayn. It never works out when you and Helena are here together. One of you always ends up getting upset, and it’s usually you.”

“I thought you didn’t care about how she feels,” Zayn says.

“I haven’t said that.”

“No, you didn’t. But I think flurrying around with someone else in a dalliance suffices that notion, don’t you?” he tries.

Harry sighs. “Zayn, we’ve spoke about this before.”

“I know, Harry. _You’ll always care about her because she’s your wife, even if it’s in the smallest, most mi-nute fractions_ ,” he repeats Harry’s words with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes. But that’s all it is. I’m not intimate with her, only you.”

“Only me?”  

“Yes.” With Zayn’s cheeks in his palms, Harry kisses him chastely. “It’s only you. But when it comes to you being here… Helena lives here, you don’t. I can’t expel her from her own home.”

“You could if you wanted to,” Zayn mumbles, his tone tart. He slips Harry’s hands down from his face into his lap.

“No, Zayn, I couldn’t. That would leave her with nowhere else to go, and I’m not a monster.” He shakes his head, slightly. “What’s wrong? You seem awfully more intolerant now than you did minutes ago. Have I upset you?”

“No,” he lies.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he says. But Harry’s incredulity leaves a silence behind. “It’s just me. I’m just being all… all bleh.”

“All bleh? Oh, how articulate of you,” he teases.

“Oh, shush.” He pushes Harry away with a chuckle, but Harry grabs him back into his hold.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Harry says.

“Oh, Harry. I’m not mad at you.” Zayn offers him a rueful smile. “I just wish things could be different, sometimes.”

“Yes, I understand that.” He un-apologetically squeezes Zayn’s arse. “Sometimes, I think about how it would have been if I’d met you before.”

“Before?” Zayn cocks his head curiously.

“Yes. Before Helena, before this house, before my job…” he trails away, in deep thought for a moment, before resuming his smile. “But I’m a strong believer in the idea that everything happens for a reason, and I believe that meeting you when I did, how I did, it was meant to happen this way.”

“That’s very wise,” Zayn says, fumbling his fingers with the small hairs on Harry’s neck.

“War will do that to you. Make you see the world further than just black and white, and more of a spectrum of colour.”

Zayn leaves a kiss on Harry’s cheek when he notices the fall in his expression. He shakes his head and sobers for Zayn, and kisses him back with more passion, with something more than a kiss.

“I really should get you back home.”

“Don’t take me home. Not yet.”

Harry mumbles his name as Zayn dips down into the crook of his neck and nips at his skin to create a light bruise he knows Harry will have trouble hiding. Oh, this is what Harry has done to him: he’s ruined him, made the wrong seem so similar to the right.

“What if Helena comes home?”

“I guess I’ll have to endure it,” Zayn says, distaste on his tongue.

Harry chuckles. “Why do you make her sound like the devil incarnate?”

 _Because she is._ “I don’t, do I?”

“Yes, you make quite a convincing job of it.”

“I suppose I just don’t like the idea of others being the things that I can’t be to the people I care about,” Zayn confesses in a low voice.

“That’s absurd, Zayn.” When Zayn’s chin drops, Harry raises it again so their eyes meet. Zayn doesn’t think the genuine in Harry’s eyes, as he looks to him, won’t ever _not_ take him by surprise. “Zayn, that’s absurd.”

“You’ve said that,” Zayn grumbles, face flushed, lips embarrassed, and all.

“And I’ll say it again, if I have to,” he tells. “To be jealous over ridiculous, little things like this. You can’t be my boss, can you? Or my enemy, or my brother, or my co-workers. Are you jealous of them?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Zayn’s eyes turn hard.

“Then what did you mean?”

“Should I or should I not tell you? Seeming as you think the way I feel is a ridiculous, little thing,” Zayn bites back defensively.

“That’s not what I meant, Zayn.”

“Then what did you mean?” He mocks.

Harry’s lips turn thin, bitten, his jaw vice-like as frustration seeps into the lines of his eyes. “Don’t act so petulant, Zayn. You aren’t a child.”

A cumbersome pause of silence. Zayn bites his tongue and blinks away the sting in his eyes. “I don’t like—I _despise_ the fact I can’t be yours, and you can’t be mine. Not truly.”

Harry scoffs, incredulous, eyes wide. “What on Earth do you mean? Zayn…”

“You already have someone to be yours, and you are theirs, too. Not by emotion, perhaps, but by law, by marriage.”

He can’t shake it, he can’t. He’s tried for weeks to get it out of his mind, but it’s pierced into the edge of his skull like a hook, and whenever he strays too far the line cuts short and yanks him back in again, knocked into the cold, hard face of the reality around him.

It’s mostly his fault, he knows that. It’s not unusual for his fears or self-doubt to convince him to sabotage a moment that seems wonderful. Because he’s not used to wonderful, and he’s not used to calm, and he’s not used to everything being okay, and that makes it twice as difficult for him to accept goodness instead of dark and bleak hurt.

In a life that’s always been black and white, sometimes it’s difficult for him to accept colour. There’s a whole spectrum out there, waiting for him, but he’s stuck on the blues like a puddle of mud. How does he get out of this?

“Zayn.” Harry groans and takes Zayn’s hands in his and kisses the back of them. “We’ve been over this.”

“I know we have.”

“And that’s okay. That’s okay, darling. If you need me to, I’ll keep telling you. I’ll tell you everyday if I have to. As long as it helps you believe me. Truly, absolutely believe me.”

Zayn’s eyes soften with affection as he looks to Harry. _This man._ He can’t help but lean in and kiss Harry deeply, with such fervour, in a way that Zayn hopes will show him, even the tiniest fraction, of how much he appreciates and cares for him, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to put it into a sentence; words simply do not suffice.

“You can be mine, you _are_ mine,” Harry tells him in a pause of their smooching. “And I know that I’m married, however failing that marriage may be, but I am still _yours.”_

_But how can you be? Angel, how can you be mine?_

As if being able to read his mind, Harry continues: “I may be vowed to another, and promised to my work, and borrowed from a place in the high heavens, but I am owned by you. As far as I am aware, you are the only one that is with me this way. You are the only one who touches me this way. You are the only one I _allow_ to touch me this way. This old and tattered and scarred body needs a gentle touch of sin, and you’re the only one that seems to fit the puzzle.”

He holds their hands up in the air, separating their fingers and clasping them together; a jigsaw piece. Zayn glances to their hands and back into the saccharine of Harry’s eyes in quick succession. He feels his heart grin in his chest.

“This,” Harry begins, motioning to the whole of his body, “is yours. And this,” he points to Zayn, his finger unwittingly placed over his heart, “is mine. Mine, okay?”

“Yes.” He nods. “Yours.”

“Good.” Harry smiles; Zayn reflects him. “We should try to have this conversation a little less often. What do you think?”

“That won’t be easy sometimes.”

“I know it won’t. But life isn’t ever easy. Life is actually very difficult, and a very unapologetic son of a bitch,” Harry says.

“Ever the philosopher.”

“You know me, baby. Writer, remember?”

“Considering you’re a writer, Harry, you don’t seem to be doing much writing.”

“Well, that’s because a certain doe-eyed man is keeping me from my priorities.” He smiles.

“Then I won’t keep you.”

Harry tightens his arms around Zayn. “No.”

“No?”

“You’re giving me inspiration,” Harry mumbles into his chest.

“Oh I am, am I?”

“Yes. I can feel the worlds formulating in my mind as we speak.”

“Then I must leave you and get back to my own world of calamity and sin.” He leaves a kiss to the top of Harry’s hair. “And then, once you’ve finished formulating those words of yours, I’ll let you take me home.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Harry says. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Oh, but I have to, remember?”

Harry groans. “Alas, you can’t have anything good in this world.”

“You have me.” Zayn proffers a witty smile that Harry consumes as he glances up.

“Yes,” he mumbles, pecking Zayn’s lips, “I do.”

How do they slip into passion and tongue-filled caresses so easily? It seems like nature, their lips the two poles of a magnet that are pulled together without coercion. One day, Zayn is afraid he might forget himself and kiss Harry in public, in the light of societal day, because he just can’t help himself.

Oh, the humiliation he would face, the shame he would take. And Harry would get away, transgression-free. The world truly is a wretched place.

“Alright, go,” Harry says, “before I forget my ideas. Thank you for my tea.”

“You’re welcome.”

Zayn leaves the door ajar on his way out.

It’s half past noon, when the front door knocks. Zayn looks over to the hallway from the rim of his glasses, curious and alert. The second knock, more hostile this time, startles him. He rests his book open on the side—so he doesn’t lose his page—and treads lightly into the hallway. The silhouette of a man shadows through the blurry glass of the door.

“Harry?” Zayn calls up the stairs, but he gets no answer. “Harry, there’s someone at the door!”

But still, he gets no response. With knitted brows, he walks towards the door; hesitant and weary. The man knocks a third time, and Zayn decides to open the door, seeming as Harry hasn’t heard him.

A gust of biting wind hits his face as he opens the door, but that’s not what makes him grimace. The man stood in the threshold of the house, who’s unfit presence turns Zayn’s face sour and makes him feel like a deer caught in the headlights, seems just as surprised to see Zayn, as Zayn is to see him.

“James.”

“Zayn,” he says, widened eyes being narrowed by a dark frown.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

There’s a moment where everything stands absolutely still and there’s nothing but the awkward beat of air between them. James’ eyes move to behind Zayn, where he faintly recognises the sound of creaking stairs from the edges of his hazy moment.

“Hoyden,” Harry’s tone his stern and bleak. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

He blinks suspiciously towards Zayn, who keeps his eyes set to the dusty porch floor, before looks back to Harry. “I lost something whilst I was here for the New Years Eve party. I was wondering I could see if I’d dropped it here. I’ve searched everywhere else for it.”

“What did you lose?”

“My wedding ring.”

Zayn looks up at him, the memory of him walking in on James and his wife mid-coitus, and turns away again, embarrassed. Instead he looks to Harry, who seems to be just as confused as he is.

“The party was a month and a half ago, Hoyden. Why didn’t you come earlier to find it?”

“Clearly, I didn’t realise I’d lost it until now,” he bites.

 _God,_ Zayn thinks. _He doesn’t let his distaste for Harry go unnoticed for a moment, does he?_

“You lost your wedding ring weeks ago and you’re only just realising you lost it? What, did your finger feel too light around your wife all of a sudden?” Harry jabs.

“Are you going to let me have a look to see if I can find my ring, or not?” he asks, impatiently. “I have other things to be doing.”

“Like what? A pretty whore?”

“A job, Styles. As you do, too, I would expect. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten your duties.”

They give one other an audacious look followed by a consuming silence. As Zayn stands there, he gets the sense that there is something between the two he’s not involved in; an inside joke, or a double entendres of sorts. It makes him shuffle on his feet in discomfort.

“Can I come in?”

“No,” Harry replies stubbornly.

“Harry,” Zayn scolds. Harry looks at him as if he’s done nothing wrong, and Zayn shakes his head. _Who’s being the child now?_ He looks to James. “Come in, James.”

“I didn’t know this was your house too, Zayn,” James comments, as he steps inside.

Zayn shuts the door, and ignores the spite he hears underlying his tone. “I’m just visiting.”

“Visiting whom, I wonder.” His eyes are hard.

Zayn swallows and looks to Harry for comfort. Harry looks like he wants to reach out and soothe Zayn’s tense shoulders, but he stays solitary, looking so defensive and alert in James’ presence.

“Where do you want to look?” Harry asks.

“I was upstairs in a bedroom mainly,” James admits, coughing, as if awkward.

 _Strange._ Zayn hasn’t ever seen James look out of place until now. To Zayn, he’s always seemed so confident in who he is, where his feet stand on the ground. But, despite the façade he bravely attempts to hold, he looks just as uncomfortable as Zayn does.

And Harry, well, he looks like a solider. Stood with his chest out high, shoulders tall, chin to the sky. Protective of Zayn. He doesn’t allow the foreign discomfiture Zayn knows he’s feeling show—and he knows that because he knows Harry, he knows that because he feels it, too. But Harry has the upper hand here, in the comfortability of his own home, and he portrays the confidence that imbues him well.

“Don’t tell me you were doing what I think you were doing,” Harry warns. A cumbersome silence; he groans. “In my house? Do you have no standards for yourself?”

“Yes, I do,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Which bedroom was it?”

“It was to the left.”

“Well, Thank God it was the spare room. Who knows what you’ve left behind.” 

“Are you going to let me look or not?” he raises his voice.

Zayn flinches subconsciously at the change in tone, like he always does, the affliction he relates to shouting not letting him have another option. _Curse his father._  

He glances to Zayn and, upon noticing how startled and anxious he looks, shakes his head. “No, I’m not going to allow you to wander around my house. Who knows what you’ll do. I’ll go and have a look myself.”

“I’m not a thief, Styles.”

“I never said so,” he argues, as he climbs the stairs in a rush of two’s.

“Well, your words implicit so,” James shouts after him. He grumbles under his breath something incoherent, before looking over to Zayn. Disappointment shifts into his eyes and his voice lowers as he takes a step towards Harry and speaks. “I thought I told you to stay away from him, Zayn. And now I find you in his house. Do you not hear me when I speak to you?”

“Yes, James, I hear you,” Zayn says. “But that doesn’t mean I must do what you say.”

“If you were smart, you would.”

Zayn bites his lip. “I’m not dumb, James. I know what I’m doing, okay?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, James, I do.”

“I told you what he’s like.” James steps closer, so they’re centimetres apart. “I told you, Zayn. He’s no good for you. He’ll be no good for you.”

Zayn scoffs. “Well, I believe otherwise.”

“He’s a smart-mouthed, arrogant cockroach that should be squashed under someone’s shoe,” he grunts, remembering to keep his tone low so Harry doesn’t hear.

“Don’t talk about him that way,” Zayn fires back defensively. Eyes lowered, mouth thin, cheeks tinting maroon from the frustration bubbling under his skin.

James steps back, surprised. A cognisance washes over him, and he runs a hand over his face, peeking through his fingers to Zayn like he’s lost the will to survive.

“You don’t—Oh, _God,_ Zayn—you don’t _care_ for him, do you?”

In Zayn’s silence, he gives his answer. Although he feels as small as an ant, he stands his ground. He makes the insecure crossing of his arms over his chest look like a defensive status and he keeps his hard and unyielding eyes on James’ face.

James groans, a hand tugging at his hair. His eyes close and reopen with an anger that makes Zayn’s heart beat quicken.

“You are such a fool, such a fucking fool, Zayn,” he insults. “You don’t even know the mess you’ve caused.”

“The mess?” Zayn offers him a confused expression. “What mess, James?”

“You’ve always been stupid. So stupid. Such a stupid, naïve, little boy.”

“Don’t call me a _boy,”_ Zayn snaps. His fists unfold and become balls of rage, squeezing and throbbing, at his side. An unusual frustration rattles inside him and aims at James, and this time he doesn’t reign it back.

Why is he so angered by James all of a sudden? T _his is just the way James is, he’s always been this way._ He’s always been this nipping and spiteful, and Zayn has always taken it like he’s thankful. So why now is he so intolerant of his attitude? 

It’s Harry; of course it’s Harry. Zayn’s mind quickly skims over the ways that Harry has, subtly and positively, changed him, in ways so small that Zayn doesn’t realise until moments like this where they shine bright like a flashlight in his mind.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, as he walks back down the stairs to meet the two in the hallway. “What have you done?”

James’ mouth, which was open ajar in shock, closes and his broken façade re-shifts back into his own glaring demeanour. He looks to Harry, eyes wild and yet a streak of amusement glimmers in his iris’ and makes Zayn feel uneasy.

“You’ve got a whole lot of explaining to do,” James says, eerily calm.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” Harry defends. He comes to stand at Zayn’s side, his hand subtly brushing against Zayn’s coiled fist, which relaxes at the touch.

James laughs spitefully. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

Zayn’s brows gather on his forehead, his countenance scrunching in a befuddled manner. Again, he stands between these two men—one his lover and the other his friend; sworn enemies to one another—and he feels out of place. He feels so out of the loop, and yet his foot seems to be caught in the knot of it all and drags him along with it.

Harry steps towards James, and for a moment Zayn thinks he’s going to hit him, but instead he hands James a shining, silver band.

“Here’s your ring,” Harry says, voice tight. He moves past them both and swings the front door open wide. “Now, get the fuck out of my house. And if you come back again I’ll call the cops.”

“You ain’t gonna call no bulls on me, Styles.” James chuckles.“But, I’ll do as I’m told.” He gives Zayn a look that he ignores, and stops in front of Harry just before he steps out of the house. “I suggest you do the same.”

“You’re almost out, just one more step,” Harry’s tone is condescending; like he’s speaking to a dog. A false smile plasters his lips. “Good boy.”

James turns around to speak, but Harry slams the door in his face. From the other side, James shouts in profanity but he’s ignored.

Harry walks towards Zayn, his face concerned, hands icy cold as they land on his cheeks.

“Are you okay? What did he say to you?”

“I’m okay, Harry,” he reassures.

“Did he upset you?”

“No more then he usually does,” Zayn jokes, but neither of them laugh.

“That bastard,” Harry grunts. He kisses Zayn’s forehead. “I should have been the one to open the door. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, but you didn’t answer,” Zayn says.

“I’m sorry, darling. I should have answered it. Him seeing you here has just made this all the more complicated.” He sighs.

Harry reaches to pull Zayn into his chest, but Zayn pulls back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it makes things more difficult than they need to be, him knowing we’re involved.”

 _Him seeing me here? Why would James seeing me be a problem? Why would it be complicated?_ Zayn stands confused and reeling in the silence between them.  

“I just… I just mean that, because James works with me, if anyone about my job were to find I’m romantically involved with you, I could… Well, I could lose my job.”

“So, are you… are you ashamed of me?” Zayn asks, looking down to his nails and picking at the red skin.

“What? No, darling, I’m not,” he assures. “Baby, I’m not ashamed of you. I could never be ashamed of you. It’s—it’s the world that has a problem, Zayn, not me. Don’t think I’m ashamed by you for one moment.”

Harry must recognise the distance and unwillingness in Zayn’s eyes because leans closer to Zayn, letting his hands fall to rub Zayn’s forearms in reassuring movements, and looks directly into his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, I know what you’re doing. But please don’t let this uproot all the progress we’ve made. Please trust me when I say: I am, in no way or shape or form, ashamed of you. If anything, I am in awe of you.”

Zayn exhibits a sigh, sniffling though there’s no tears. “In awe?”  

He nods and offers Zayn a consoling smile. “I’ve told you before how strong you are. Do you not believe me?”

“It’s difficult to.”

“Are you okay, Zayn?”

It’s still something Zayn has to get used to: being asked if he’s okay, when he’s gone his whole life without anyone offering him a second glance of concern. It feels so peculiar for him, for someone else to put his needs above their own. Startling, almost, because he expects to be pushed to the dirt but instead Harry lifts him up.

Zayn’s shoulders relax. “Yes, Harry. I’m okay. Are you?”

“If you’re okay, I’m okay,” he says and places a gentle kiss on Zayn’s lips. “But, I think I should get you home now.”

“What?” Zayn frowns. “Now?”

“Yes. There’s something I need to do, and it requires me leaving the house.”

“I can stay here on my own, I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were, although you act like it sometimes,” he mumbles. “I don’t like the idea of you being here alone. And what if Helena comes back? What will you do? I’ll find you both on the floor, brawling, when I return.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Is there something going on between you and James? Something other than you usual, inappropriate conflict?” Zayn asks.

“Between James and me? No, nothing, why?”

Zayn shrugs. “It just seems like he was implying something and I didn’t understand it."  

Harry shakes his head. “There’s nothing to worry about. And if there was, it wouldn’t be any of your concern.”

“Okay.” Zayn still has questions, but he decides to let them go. “So, who are you abandoning me to go see?”

“Do you know how to mind that little beeswax of yours?” He kisses Zayn’s cold nose. “I have to go see a man about a horse.”

“A what?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Zayn.” Harry chuckles. “I have to visit the office. For work matters.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll go put the book back.”

Harry stops Zayn, as he’s about to leave. “No. Leave it, I’ll put it back later. Do you remember what page you were on?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Now come on, it’s gone 1pm,” he says as checks his watch.

Harry turns around and picks up two coats from the hangers; one which is his and the other, an old hand-me-down of Harry’s that’s been designated to Zayn. There’s holes in the pockets and the bottom button has fallen off, and the wool inside has turned bitty and scratches sometimes, but Zayn doesn’t care; it’s still in better condition than anything Zayn has ever owned, and beggars cannot be choosers.

 _How can he think he’s not wealthy, when he owns a car?_ Zayn thinks, laughing to himself as they walk out into the cold winter air and down the driveway.

Like a gentleman, Harry helps Zayn into the car, shuts the door behind him and jogs to his side. Zayn glances out to the forest line, memories resurfacing as he pictures what’s hidden in the middle of the maze of trees, and he smiles.

“We should go out there again,” he says to Harry.

“To the hut? We should. I haven’t been there in what seems like so long.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it was the only place I used to have where I could find peace and quiet,” he says. He takes Zayn’s cold hand in his. “And now I find peace with you, every Thursday, in the comfort of my own home.”

“Always the flatterer, Harry.”

“Who else am I to compliment? There’s just you.”

Zayn gifts him an adoring smile. Harry kisses the back of his hand, before starting the engine and taking grasp of the steering wheel.

 

• • XVIII • •

 

For a Friday, the bar is unusually quiet. Only a few men litter across the tables along the far wall, and Zayn only has to haul one drunk from the floor and out the back-way.

Zayn suspects it’s because most have fled to Chicago for the baseball game, but he doesn’t complain. All it means is that he has less work to do and more time to sit around doing nothing—still far better than the usual, bustling Friday night he has to deal with.

James sits on the other side of the bar, his eyes bleak and hostile as he sips on a tumbler of whiskey, and although he’s been passing cruel glares at Zayn for most of the evening they have yet to speak a word to one another. And if that isn’t enough to tell Zayn that he’s mad at him, well… storming out of Harry’s house yesterday certainly was. Although, Zayn thinks his anger is misplaced: it should be with himself, for acting like a _wanker,_ as Harry would say.

Zayn smiles to himself at thought of Harry as he sits down on a stool at the end of the bar, daze-like. He misses him, he misses him a lot, despite the fact he only saw him yesterday, where they fell into a lying position in the seat of Harry’s car and made out for an hour. Zayn’s mouth still tingle at the memory, rubbing his fingers against his lips and remembering how swollen they felt when Harry left, how incredible Harry said they looked, how they felt even better on his.

He misses him. He misses him a lot. And he hopes Harry misses him, too, even if he’s sat at home eating dinner with his wife or lying in bed beside her as she reads and he goes over his notes as he taps his pen between his teeth in deep, pensive thought like he does when he’s in a writing mood. Even if he’s with her, Zayn hopes Harry is thinking of him.

“Stop acting like you’re dripping with affection before I give you all your whiskey back,” James grumbles from the other end of the bar.

Zayn stands and walks over, leaning on the bar in front of him. “You’re angry.”

“Aren’t you deductive,” he drones sarcastically.

“At me. You’re angry at me.”

“So I should be.” He drops his drink onto the bar with a heavy hand. “Damn it, Zayn, do you ever listen to me?”

“I always listen to you.”  

“And do you actually consider the things I say?”

“Well, most of the time what you say is baloney, James,” he says, arms crossed.

“Then how are you supposed to learn?”

Zayn releases a frustrated sigh, and bites on the inside of his cheek. “You don’t have to feel responsible for me, James. I’m not a child.”

“And yet you act like one,” he retaliates.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, Zayn, you do.”

“Not doing what you want me to do isn’t acting like a child, James,” he argues. “It’s being an adult. You don’t get to boss me around. You’re not my father, you’re not my brother. You’re barely a friend.”

James slams his drink down on the bar. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Heart pounding, Zayn’s fingers come down to jab the wood. “I am my own person. I may have let you order me around before, but… but not anymore. I don’t need that, I don’t _want_ that. Please, get that in here.” He points to his skull.

“You think that’s what I do, you think I boss you around?” James asks.

“I know you do.”

“Are you fucking—” he begins in a shout but lowers his voice. “I’m guiding you. You don’t have anyone to look up to, I’m just trying to push you in the right direction, Zayn. And the path you’re taking now, with _him?”_ He shakes his head. “It ain’t the right one.”

“I don’t need you to guide me.”

“Then I’m _protecting_ you.”

“And I don’t need your protection.” He huffs. “I don’t need anyone guiding me, I don’t need anyone doing nothing for me. I’ve made it this far on my own with no one else.”

“And look where it got you.” He downs the rest of his drink, a disgusted look withering his face. “It got you into the arms of a married, no good, son of a bitch man, who will hurt you the first chance he gets." 

Zayn shakes his head. “He won’t hurt me. Harry wouldn’t do that.”

“As naïve as ever. This is where your new-found sense of independence has gotten you, you stupid man,” James grumbles. “You think you know him, do you? You think sucking his dick for nights in a warm bed makes you know who he is? You’re whoring yourself out to a stranger. He probably laughs about you to his wife.”

He almost stumbles back, like James’ words are a knife that lacerates his chest. Eyes squeezed shut, he shakes his head. _Harry wouldn’t do that._

“You don’t even know him, do you?” Zayn asks.

“I know him far better than you think. Far better.”

Why does he do this? Why does he let people in and control him so easily? James is wrong, he’s so, so wrong. He doesn’t know Harry—how could he? He can’t know Harry like Zayn does. He can’t know how Harry likes his tea, or how he pauses to play with his chin when’s writing, especially if the hairs grow any longer than stubbles, or what side of the bed he sleeps on, or how his arms feel like in the morning to wake up in.

James doesn’t know the embellishments on Harry’s skin, or skimmed his fingers over and over the fading scars when he wakes up before Harry in the morning like Zayn has. He doesn’t know which book Harry’s favourite is, or which line he keeps with his heart.

He doesn’t know Harry. Zayn doesn’t think anyone knows Harry like he does.

 _This is just James,_ Zayn reminds himself. _This is just who he is._ A bitter, resentful man, who can’t see past his own hate. That’s all he is. _Don’t let him get into your head._

He leans over the bar into the close vicinity of James, who looks into his eyes, startled and unsure but still as stony as ever. When Zayn speaks, his voice is cold and authoritative.

“You’re not doing this, James. Let me have one thing, just this one thing. You may hate Harry, but I don’t. Don’t make me another problem you can’t solve.”

This malicious expression passes over James’ face, before he leans in, so their faces are inches apart, and gravels out in a separate tone: “I’m the one with problems, and yet you’re lying with a married man. What does that make you, Zayn?”

Their stares are unwavering, as they remain there in pride. The swing of the jazz in the background of their moment feels so heavy and burdensome now, and the silence of the bar seems to only goad their altercation more.

Zayn is the first one to move away. He snatches the empty glass from between them and fills it back up, spilling it as he slams it back down on the bar and slides it over to James.

“Finish your drink, and get out,” he orders, and turns away before he has a chance to see the reaction—though, he faintly hears the ticking of James’ profane grumblings.

He walks out of the bar and into the hallway, where he picks up the telephone box and dials the number he’s memorised like it’s a tattoo on his heart.

Whilst the line rings, he takes deep breaths. In, out. In and out. Calm, calm, calm. He taps his fingers along the wall he leans against to try and soothe the quaking of anger in his palms. Calm, calm, calm. The phone is still ringing. Tapping, tapping—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—the line picks up, and he answers in a gruff voice.

“Harry,” Zayn says in a sigh. His shoulders automatically relax, and he feels a sense of that calm he was trying to grasp onto wave down the end of the line and settle over him—just from the sound of Harry’s voice.

“ _Zayn_ ,” he sounds surprised. “ _Is everything okay_?”

“Yes… No.”

“ _Well, which one is it?”_

“Both?” he grimaces.

Zayn shoots a quick glance to the door at the end of the hall. It still blares its own music, the augmented light standing uncorrupted by any shadow, stillness inside: he’s safe.

“I got into an altercation with James.”

“ _He’s there?”_ Harry asks, defence leading into his tone.

“Yes, but I’ve told him to finish his drink and leave. He’s caused enough trouble for now, don’t you think?”

_“What did he say?”_

Should he tell Harry? No, he shouldn’t. He already knows that Harry will think it’s ridiculous, he already knows what Harry will say. And Zayn already understands that James is just trying to get inside his mind, despite how convinced his insecurities feel. He swallows them down, deciding that it will only cause Harry more stress that Zayn is sure he doesn’t need right now.

“Nothing to be fascinated with,” he mumbles instead.  

_“Did he upset you?”_

Zayn lightly scoffs. “When doesn’t he?”

_“Zayn…”_

“It’s okay, Harry, I’m fine. He just doesn’t like the fact I speak back to him. He’s like a dog that has to bite back,” he tells. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your writing.”

_“No, no you haven’t. You’ve brought a light to my depressing evening.”_

“What’s so wrong with your evening?”

 _“Well, for a start, you aren’t here with me,”_ Harry speaks as if the source of his stress is evident, as if Zayn should know this by now. _“And, well, my writing situation hasn’t improved at all. In fact, it may have gotten worse.”_

“I’m sorry about that.”

 _“It’s not your fault, darling.”_ Zayn can imagine the lines in his head as he frowns and stresses. He wishes he was there to ease them. “And to add the cherry to the top, Helena and I had an argument ourselves before she left for work again.”

“You argued?” Zayn frowns.

_“Yes. I think she was just tired from work and she hasn’t had much sleep. You know how women can get. And if you don’t, well… I envy you.”_

“I’ll take your word for it.”

 _“It’s best to.”_ Harry sigh crackles down the line. _“I can only imagine what she’ll be saying to her friends about me tonight. No doubt the usual shit she does. It’ll come to bite her in the arse one day.”_

“Oh, I can’t imagine why she’d have any reason to dislike you,” Zayn jokes.

 _“Oh, haha,”_ he says sarcastically. “ _Trust me, she has plenty of reasons to dislike me, and most of the are justified.”_

“I don’t dislike you.” _I really, really adore you._

“ _No, you don’t, which makes you foolish, Zayn Malik_ ,” he speaks so soft. _“Foolishness is a good thing in moderation, keeps you grounded.”_

 _“Or keeps you in constant threat of embarrassment_.” Zayn rolls his eyes. Of course Harry would take his flaws and make them strengths.

_“Oh, shush. You’re my fool.”_

_“_ Yeah _.”_ Zayn grins wide. “Yeah, I know.”

 _“Is there any other reason why you called?”_ Harry asks.

“No,” he replies. “I just wanted to hear your voice. You calm me down.”

“ _Are you okay now?”_

“Yes, I’m okay.”

_“I’m going to have to say goodbye to you then, darling. I have an article to complete by tomorrow morning.”_

“Oh, okay.”

_“I’ll see you soon, okay?”_

“Thursday isn’t soon.” Zayn laughs out a sigh.

 _“It’ll come around fast,”_ he says. _“I will see you, soon. I promise.”_

“Okay.” 

 _“Okay.”_  

The line rings dead. Zayn places the phone back on the holder and leans his forehead against the wall. He exhales all of his anger, his anxiety, his fears in one blow and rubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t quite understand how the situation between he and Harry became what it is—perhaps it was when Harry first touched his hand or his cheek, or when felt the first pinch of that inexplicable insurrection in his chest that has manifested to full-blown pains whenever he’s not within Harry’s radius, or when Harry kissed each inch of his skin and left it tingling with addiction, or even between all of this when the tension between them bubbled over into that first kiss that had been threatening itself from the first night they met—but he feels like it’s a hole he isn’t going to dig himself out of.

 _Harry, what are you doing?_ He asks with a sigh.

A couple of raised voices from the bar take his attention away from Harry. He walks over the creaky floorboards, listening from behind the door closed ajar, confusion etched on his face. It’s James, he can tell that much, but there’s a female voice; a voice that sounds so familiar, but he can’t place it in his mind.

His expression scrunches in confusion as he swings the door open, trying to understand what he’s seen, and then falls flat and his mouth parts slightly when it all sinks in like a heavy draft of water that pushes him back a step.

It’s Helena. James and Helena, arguing at the bar. They both turn their heads the moment the door pushes open and creaks on its hinges. For the second time this week, he sees James look completely taken aback and out of place. And Helena, in her porcelain, hellish beauty, looks like a deer caught in the brightest headlights.

Everyone stands like statues. And then, as if the situation finally sinks in, she flees. She heads towards the door and her heals sound like drums on the concrete floor and she doesn’t look back. James doesn’t even try to stop her: he just sits in his silence, eyes down from anything but the surface of the bar, twiddling with his thumbs. He gulps his whiskey down.

Harry’s New Years Eve party springs to Zayn’s mind. Finding James in the spare room, walking in on him being… intimate. It wasn’t his wife; Harry was right, his wife hadn’t even been there. Pale skin and dark almond hair, a glimmering wedding ring…

Zayn’s eyes swell in realisation. _James and Helena?_

“Stop fucking staring at me like that,” James snaps, without even looking up at Zayn.

“You’re…” he tries, but the words aren’t ready. “You’re sleeping with _Helena?”_

When James finally looks to him, his eyes are glossy and reddened and hold a facet of…worry?

“It’s none of your fucking business, Malik,” he bites.

Zayn can’t suppress the ripple of anger he feels on his tongue. “You’re fucking _that bitch?”_

James points to him, warning. “You better watch your mouth.”

Zayn scoffs at the audacity, the pure _audacity_ of him. Balled fists, spiteful tongue, he spits, “And you shamed me for being with a married man. You’re no better. _No fucking better.”_

“I don’t need your lectures, I don’t fucking need them,” he shouts, waving his hand around drunkenly. “You don’t think I know this is fucked? That this whole thing is so, so fucked up? I do. _I do_.”

“All those times… all those times you said you were messing around with flappers and whores… it was her? It was always her?” Zayn shakes his head, as the last pieces fall into his puzzle. “How long? How long have you been with her?”

James looks up hesitantly and back down to the bottom of his glass, before he admits, “Two years.”

Zayn chokes back his shock. He leans his back against the wall for support. Two years? _Two years?_

The nights and the hours Zayn has spent feeling guilty for lying with Harry, for kissing him, for touching him, for letting himself fall for him, for stealing Helena’s husband away, and she was already doing this to him? For months, _months_ before Zayn even met Harry. God, James is right. This is all so _fucked._

Zayn can’t deny the small dent of satisfaction he feels. Since being with Harry, his dislike for her has been grounded on his jealousy, his impatience with her misplaced. But now he has a reason; a true, solid reasoning behind his distaste. How could he not be pleased with that?

“And all her night shifts?” Zayn asks. James remains silent. “Unbelievable.”

“You keep your mouth shut, you hear me?”

Even from the distance between them, Zayn feels the threatening demeanour of James wave over to him, but it does nothing. In this trial, they’re both equals; both as sinful and as wrong as one another and for the first time in his life, James has no power over him.

“Why? Why would I?” Zayn dares. “What’s stopping me from picking up the phone right now and telling Harry?”

“If you tell Harry,” James begins, eyes dense and glaring, posture as stiff as a board, “if you _dare_ tell him, I’ll let your father know what you’ve been doing with him, skulking about being… _dirty._ I’ll sit back and laugh as I watch your father track him down and beat the shit out of him.”

Zayn takes a step forward defensively, as if he’s going to advance on James. He feels the rush of blood to his knuckles, the heavy presence of dread in his vein as an awful image of Harry, bloodied and broken and bruised, flashes in his mind.

Zayn shakes his head. “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do that.”

“And I’d watch your father beat the air from your lungs, too,” he sneers. “Might teach you a goddamn thing or two.”

The pinch in his nose, the subtle glazing of his eyes—Zayn hides it behind a disfigured, descended countenance of anger. He scoffs; in shock, in inundation, in hurt, he doesn’t know. He shouldn’t be surprised, he knows that James can be despicably cruel—his mind reels back to all those times he’s caught James mid-fight, beating the life out of men for looking at him strange—but he is. The surprise rattles around inside him, the fear; not for himself, but for Harry. How could he hate Harry so much? Zayn thought it to be an impossible feat.

“You call yourself my friend,” Zayn’s voice is filled with disbelief.

“A friend who wants nothing but the best for you,” James says.

“And you call wanting my father to beat me to death what’s best for me?” Zayn shouts. “Oh, James, the depth of your depravity is boundless.”

“It’s a lesson you need to learn.”

Zayn proceeds towards the bar and slams his fists down on the table, so hard they sting. “And who’s going to be around to teach you the lesson, huh? Who’s going to get the lesson into that imbecilic, barbaric skull of yours?”

Zayn is taken by surprise when James jumps from his stool and grabs Zayn by his colour. The shirt rips in his hold, but he clings on.

“Who do you think you’re talking to, _boy_?”

“Don’t call me that, don’t you fucking call me that,” he hisses.

“Why not?” James cocks his head to the side, spitting in his face. “Did daddy not hit you hard enough last time? Did he not remind you of your place?”

Zayn pushes him away, eyes furious and broken, and he’s panting like he’s been hit in the chest and it winds him.

“You know where the door is, Hoyden. Walk through it, leave,” Zayn demands, pointing to the door at the far end, waiting for him.

“Where is he? Where’s your father, Zayn?” James asks, before calling Clane’s name.

Zayn picks up the half empty glass of whiskey from the bar and throws it at James’ head—it barely misses, but it takes James by surprise enough to silence him.

“Get out,” Zayn shouts. When James doesn’t move, Zayn picks up another bottle, before repeating more fiercely, “Get the fuck out! Go! You’re barred.”

“You can’t kick me out, it’s not even your business,” James states.

Zayn throws the bottle; it smashes against the back wall, contents dripping across the faded paint and down to the floor. The cracking of the glass doesn’t seem to be loud enough to disguise the ruin of the relationship that leaves that bitter taste trickling into Zayn’s lungs.

He grabs the next bottle. “Try me.”

James retrieves his hat from the bar with hesitant fingers before stalking back. A twisted look of hate lingers on his face, that same awful disgust Zayn recognises whenever Harry’s name lingers on his tongue, and Zayn knows he’s become enemy #2.

“I’ve warned you, Zayn,” he says. “I don’t go back on my word. Remember that.”

Zayn lifts his shaking hand to the door. “Out.”

As James disappears from the bar, Zayn collapses to the floor in a state. Weak limbs, frazzled mind, wet cheeks, he realises, as he raises his hand to wipe away the blurriness in his eyes. It’s a betrayal, he decides, holding his hand to his chest to feel the erratic pattern of his heart.

They’ve known each other since they were young boys, why wouldn’t he be hurt? He’s watched James turn from a generous, naïve child into the grief-stricken, bitter, empty, post-war shell the world left in his place. Zayn always cared for him, _always._ But that empathy has been obliterated; it should have been the moment he decided to place Harry higher than James, but he held on for nostalgia’s sake.  

That’s what hurts the most, Zayn thinks. Holding on to who someone used to be and not realising who’d they’d become. Remembering all the good and not recognising the bad. His father always told him nostalgia was the greatest deception of all, but he never listened enough. It took Harry to walk into his life and become the anchor that holds him down to teach him; it took James’ resentment over the man he cares so deeply for it hurts, to see the truth.

 _Oh, Harry,_ Zayn thinks, sobbing into his hand quietly. _I need you, and you’re so far away._

The familiar sound of a squeaking door and scuffing shoes has him scrambling from the floor. He wipes his cheeks and his nose in haste, straightening his shirt, and leaning against the bar to regather himself before he faces his father.  

“What’s the commotion about?” he asks in a gravelly tone.

“A customer was drunk, got upset. He threw a bottle,” he lies.

“Did he pay?”

Zayn scoffs under his breath. _Far from it_. “Yes, father.”

“Good.” He motions to the mess on the other side of the room. “Why haven’t you cleaned this up yet?”

“I’ll do it now.”

He turns to grab a brush from underneath the bar, but his father’s hand on the top of his bicep burns him into stillness. His hesitant eyes glance to his father, who’s face looks, unsurprisingly, hazy in a drunken stupor, eyes looking red, like they’re unshed with their own anger and pain. Zayn knows what that means and he craves to shake from the touch, but he dares move.

“Have you been crying?” his father asks him.

“No,” Zayn lies.

“Don’t try and deceive me. Stop acting like such a child. Crying is for babies, are you a baby?” 

“No,” Zayn whispers.

“Then stop acting like one.” He grabs a damp rag from the side and throws it into Zayn’s face. “Clean it up. I don’t want to be disturbed again.”

Clane exits, and Zayn rushes to the spilt juice with his rag to clean it up. He’s too lost in his own thoughts to realise when he cuts himself on the glass and bleeds out. When he looks down at the cut, oozing blood over his trousers, all he can think about is how Harry would bandage him up good and take care of him, kiss his finger, his face, his lips, and tell him it’s okay.

He knows this will hurt Harry, see the deceit of his wife as a betrayal, despite saying he doesn’t love her, despite the questionable position of their relationship. And Zayn can’t bear the thought of hurting Harry in any way. Can he do that to him? Or should he just wait until the truth sheds itself? It would be easier for him now but in the long run… If Harry discovered that Zayn knew all along, would it be just as equal as a betrayal to him? God knows, if Harry kept a secret like this from him, Zayn wouldn’t be too pleased about it.

Oh, this makes his brain hurt. So much as happened in one night, and he’s still processing it. James and Helena, Helena and James—the idea makes his skin crawl. And to think he saw them together… Zayn shivers.

This is all so _fucked_.

Discarding the broken glass into the trash, he rips off a piece of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and wraps it around his wound. The bar is empty now and leaves him nothing of use to do. He sits behind the bar, lamenting, hand under his chin with a pout, wondering what he should do about the situation because he knows whatever he chooses will hurt someone in the end; whether that’s Harry, or James, or himself.

Zayn sits with a burdening sigh. He wishes he could go back to yesterday morning when he woke up in Harry’s arms and everything seemed okay. Now, he can’t even pretend.

 

• • XVIV • • 

 

Harry’s steps are determined, fists at his side, as he steps into the office. He ignores his desk and strides straight for the room at the end of the hallway, where Victoria provides her usual heart eyes as he passes that makes Harry roll his eyes. He doesn’t bother asking her if the boss is in, instead he knocks briskly on the door and doesn’t await approval to enter.

“Harry,” his boss says, surprised. Thankfully, he’s alone. “You look like a man on a mission.”

“Did you tell him?” he asks abruptly.

“Tell who, what?”

“Did you tell Hoyden? Did you tell him about my… the request you asked of me?” he asks. “Because he’s acting real shady and suspicious like he does.”

Boss sighs and holds his hands up in guilt. “I may have accidentally let it slip,” he confesses. Harry goes to object, but he beats him to it. “But I specifically and clearly stated that it was none of his business, and he’d have nothing to do with it. Which he objected to, but I reminded him of his place. You’re my right-hand guy, Harry. I wouldn’t let him replace you.”

“I don’t understand. How did you _accidentally_ _let it slip?”_

“We were speaking of your assignments, how far you’d advanced. He was asking about you, I don’t know… his jealousy of you takes him too far sometimes, even I know that. And I began to mention it and paused, and… well, he wouldn’t let it go after that. So, I told him,” he explains in nonchalance.

 _No._ No, he doesn’t understand how complicated he’s made it. With Boss on his back, and James on his tail, badgering him. And Zayn…

Harry sighs. “He’s already interfered. Please, tell him not to do so any more. He makes it even more difficult than it already is.”

“Already interfered,” he repeats, pensive. “What has he done?”

“He came to my home on Thursday, trying to threaten me,” he tells. “I need boundaries. He can harass me at work but at home…”

“I’ll warn him to lay off, you have my word.” He nods to Harry. “He forgets his place sometimes. And sometimes he needs reminding.”

“Thank you.” Silence succumbs the moment, and Harry looks around.

In four years, this place hasn’t changed, not one bit. The same paint, the same frames, the same chairs, the same musky scent of the room. How does he live with this? Harry is bored even now, staring at the white and black of the patterned paint that makes his eyes go funny.

“Have you heard from them, the sponsors? Tarol? Robin?” Harry asks.

Boss looks confused for a moment, before remembrance dawns on him. He clicks his fingers, nodding. “Ah, uh, yes. Yes, well, no, I haven’t heard from them in a while. Since the Christmas party, actually. But rest assure they’re still on board.”

Harry frowns. _Since Christmas?_ “You said you’d spoken to them since then.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You told me on the phone.”

“Oh. Well, perhaps I did and I’m just forgetting,” he says, though his tone doesn’t tell Harry he’s very sure about what he’s telling.

A suspicion shrouds in to his mind. Those times where Boss recalled the exact dates of his assignments, how he never forgot to hound Harry on hurrying with his articles before the deadlines were even up, how he’s known around the office for his great memory, never skipping a flaw he sees in anyone.

 _Maybe it’s age,_ Harry thinks. But no, that doesn’t seem right.

“Sir, this assignment I’m working on,” Harry begins, and Boss nods. “This **is** to do with our sponsors, right? There’s no… no personal motivation here, it doesn’t have much to do with you?”

“No, no. Well, it has something to do with me, of course. Every decision goes past me,” he explains.

“But this hasn’t anything to do with your own personal gain? Because if it does, sir…”

“No, Harry, of course it doesn’t,” he shuts down quickly, waving him off, looking irritated all of a sudden. “Now, do you have something else to ask me? I’m a busy man.”

Harry frowns and a plethora of questions pop into his mind, but he leaves his curiosity be. “No, sir. Thank you,” he says, before exiting the room.

On his way out, he finds Hoyden sat at his desk. Per usual, he’s not doing any work like he should, but instead staring at Harry as he passes by. Only today it isn’t his common, demeaning glare that greets Harry, it’s something different. It’s a falter in his brow, a twist of his lips into something seldom seen, a hint of… _uncertainty_ in his countenance that throws him off his balance. Today, James Hoydon isn’t roaring and boastful. Today, James Hoyden is calm and decent and complacent. And it throws Harry off, too.

What is with them today? There’s a scent of an unfamiliar attitude in the air. Even Jack, as Harry passes his desk, looks up to him with a trepidation in his eyes—only his worry is justified. 

“Hey, Limey,” he says in a low voice.

“What is it, Jack?” Harry asks as he sits down at his desk. His pile of paperwork is smaller than usual.

“I never got a chance to talk to you about that night. You know, the night at the club, when you saw me with that girl—uh, guy… you know,” he rambles.

Harry sighs. “Jack, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, no, of course you’re not. I mean, if you were gonna I’d just tell people you were popping off with one of them, too.” He laughs nervously. “But I just wanted to let you know, personally, on the down low, I ain’t one of them, you know? 

“No, I don’t know.” Harry gives him a quizzical look.

“You know…” He coughs, leaning in closer, so their conversation remains concealed. “I ain’t into people of the same sex, I ain’t into men, the lady-men, you know what I mean, don’t ya? In some states up north, they got this name for them. Maggots or something.”

“Maggots?” Harry repeats.

He wonders for a moment if Zayn knows about the word, and if he’d be angry and defensive over it. It doesn’t sound good; Harry thinks he would be.

“Yeah, something like that.” He nods along. “But look, the point I’m tryna make here is, you know, like I said, I ain’t into men or anything like that. It’s all… experimental, in with the trends, you know? And most guys are doing it, it don’t make me weird or nothing, I just—”

“Jack, jack,” Harry interrupts him. He shakes a finger. “I couldn’t give a bloody fuck who you decide to hang around with. You could be wearing a dress and putting lipstick on and I wouldn’t care. It’s your business, and your business is yours, just like my business is mine. I won’t tell anyone, anything.”

“Right, yeah. Thanks, Limey. Although, I gotta say I was surprised to see you there. Don’t you have a, uh… a wife?”

“Jack,” Harry looks to him, deadpan. “We all have wives.”

“Right.”

“Experimental,” he lies through his teeth. Of course Zayn isn’t some experiment to satisfy his pride. If anything, it’s his pride he’s ruining by being with him… his soul, too, perhaps. Before Jack can return to his desk, Harry calls his attention. “Where is everyone? There’s, like, four people here.”

“Ah, it’s baseball season. The lucky son of a bitches who got tickets booked time off. You should’ve gone. I heard this game is gonna be huge.”

“I’m more of a football kind of guy,” he mumbles. “Have you spoken to Boss? Does he seem off to you?”

“To me? No. But you know him much better than I do, much better than anyone in the office, I bet. If there’s something off, you’d know it,” he replies.

Harry hums. “And Hoyden?”

They glance to James, who sits on the opposite end of the room, feet on his desk. He puffs on a Lucky Strike and watches them both.

“Yeah, James… He seems quiet today. Usually he’s bossing people around or shouting at the radio. Maybe it’s because there’s not that many people here.”

“I don’t think that’s the case,” Harry speaks to himself.

“And why is that?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have work to do.”

When Harry looks up from his desk again, the sky is darkening outside. He checks his watch—how did 5pm roll around so fast? His eyes are sore, and his head hurts, and his fingers are indented with the print of circular letters. It’s quiet in the office now, with only him and Hoyden remaining, he finds as he looks up and meets his eyes. Harry frowns; usually Hoyden is off report by now. _What has gotten in to him today?_

Even as Hoyden jumps from his seat and strolls over to Harry’s desk, their eyes don’t break. Harry doesn’t think he even blinks.

“Styles,” he greets in his usual cold manner, chest wide and shoulders tall.

“Hoyden,” Harry replies, indifferent. He looks back down to his work. “You’re still here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Suppose I assumed you to be drinking away your sorrows in some stingy bar, or fucking some poor whore, not working.”

“You know, I do work to keep my job, Styles. I worked damn hard to be where I am now.”

“Really? I heard they’re giving any scumbag alcoholics jobs nowadays. Employment rates are down,” Harry goads.

From his peripheral, Harry sees James’ knuckles clench and redden and unwind, taking a deep breath. Harry smirks, impressed at how he keeps his temper under reign, when it’s usually as easy as the flick of a coin from heads to tails.

“Well, when you find one, let me know. We can’t have people like that working for such an important business, can we?” His voice is strained and gritty as he speaks.

Harry looks up to him with a disgustingly sarcastic smile. “No, we can’t. So, I’d suggest a mint. Coffee doesn’t cover up the smell of whiskey, Hoyden.”

“Fuck you, Styles,” he spits, leaning down on Harry’s desk, so they’re eye level. “This company was better without shit-eating, two-handled, British fucks like you behind the scenes.”

“Does your wife kiss that filthy mouth of yours?”

A hint of humour mixes in with the cruelty of his countenance. “Not my wife, no.”

“Well, there’s no surprise there.” Harry shuffles the papers around on his desk, pushing Hoyden’s hands off his desk.

He stands straight, looking down on Harry. “Oh, on the contrary, Styles. It’s quite surprising.”

“What are you talking about, James?” He looks up confused, and irritated, and tired, and intolerant of his attitude right now. He misses Zayn, that’s what it is; he feels cold without him. “Are you drunk, at work? Already? Some professionalism in the workplace please, James, I’m begging you—and it’s the only thing I’ll beg you for.”

He stands from his desk and makes his way to the hallway, heading to Boss’ office. James follows him the whole way.

“Don’t speak too soon.”

Harry looks to him like he’s stupid, as he waits for invitation to enter. “What’s the ominous attitude about? Honestly, James, sometimes you do act dumb.” When there’s no answer, he begins to walk away, but turns back on his heels. “Oh, I forgot to tell you.” He closes in on James, and James takes a steady step back. “Stay away from Zayn. He told me about yesterday, and I’d advise you to warn yourself. I may tolerate your actions towards me, but they won’t be tolerated towards Zayn.”

James’ expression sobers. “What?”

“I know, James. You aren’t slick.” He passes his papers on to Victoria, who seems overly excited to see him. “Give these to Boss when he’s back from, I don’t know, wherever he is,” he says and walks down the hallway.

“You know _what_?” James asks as he follows behind. When Harry remains silent, James grabs his arm and swivels him round.

He jumps from the hold. “Get the fuck off me,” Harry snaps.

“What do you know?” James repeats. “What did that little shit tell you?”

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you’re talking about?” Harry raises his voice, the defences kicking in like blades under his skin.

Standing, James is taller in height than Harry, but in confidence, in strength, Harry stands stories higher than him. Their faces are so close Harry thinks he might become tipsy from the overwhelming smell of alcohol rolling off him. How does he not get reprimanded for this?

Harry prods at his chest. “I asked you a question.”

“I’m talking about that little toy of yours,” he says through a gritted jaw. “What has he told you?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” He pushes James away, who stumbles onto the bench behind him. Fear glints in his eyes under the light before it disappears behind a growl. “You keep Zayn’s name out of your mouth, and you stay away from him, or I’ll give you something to be afraid about.”

James springs back to his feet but is hesitant to approach Harry again. “Why are you doing this to him? You’re going to break him, you know it’ll break him. You just had to drag him into this, didn’t you?”

“Knock it off, Hoyden. It’s none of your concern,” Harry warns.

“It’ll destroy him. Are you really going to do that? You, the angel sent from above. Can you live with that?”

“Hoyden.” Harry’s eyes are slits, threatening, as he peers down at him. “It is _none_ of your business. I know what I’m doing.”Do you?”

“Yes,” he hisses. “I am much smarter than you. I know how to handle this. And I’m the best one to do it, so before you go running back to Boss, _begging_ like a whore to take my place, just remember who’s his right-hand man, and why that is.”

“And why is that Harry?”

“I deserve to be here. I’ve furthered this company in ways you dream about at night as you fall asleep. But you?” Harry scoffs. “You couldn’t trick a bat into being blind.”

The door at the end of the hallway swings open. Boss steps out and begins to walk towards them.

“Fellas,” he says, hands in the air in welcoming. “What’s the problem? Why do I have to set you apart again?”

James goes to respond, but Harry beats him to it. “Nothing, sir. Hoyden here just forgot his place. Again.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he fires back.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. This is a workplace, a little etiquette never hurt no one, neither did a little maturity,” Boss says. “James, why are you still here? Head home.”

“Yes, children don’t belong in the workplace,” Harry adds with a smirk.

“Harry, that’s enough,” Boss orders in an authoritative voice. He exhales. “ _Both of you_ are acting like children, and I’m damn tired of pulling you two apart like you’re rabid dogs. Professionalism is key, and I don’t see much of it at the moment. Sort it out.”

“I’m not the problem, sir,” Harry says.

“He provokes me,” James says.

Harry laughs, head thrown back. “I _breathe_.”

“You _both_ are the problem. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about this. Both of you just… go home to your wives, have dinner, release some of this tension. Be back in work on Monday, and I don’t want none of this. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry complies.

They look to James, who remains silent. “Hoyden?”

He grunts in response.  

“Go.” Boss waves them off, and turns around to head back to his office, where his phone awaits him, ringing.

Harry storms off back to his desk. He tidies his papers, turns the small lamp off, grabs his coat, and heads for the elevator. The door is about to shut, when James stops the door and steps in.

“You couldn’t have taken the next flight?” Harry grumbles.

“No. I’m impatient, and it’s a public elevator. Problem?”

“An abundance of them.”

“Tough luck, Styles.”

Silence becomes them, with only the ring of each floor breaking the moments apart. Harry taps his finger against his watch as he counts the seconds.

 _Another awful day at work._ Harry sighs. He misses Zayn; he misses him a lot. And it’s only Saturday. How will he make it until next Thursday? He doesn’t think he can. He has a day off tomorrow—perhaps he can see Zayn then.

“Will you quit that tapping?” James snaps. “Lord, you always find a way to frustrate.”

With Zayn in his mind, Harry can’t bite his tongue. “What did you say to Zayn? What happened?”

“That’s not your business.”

“Oh, you know what that is, do you? I’m surprised.” Harry crosses his arms. “Why do you do it, James? Why do you pretend to care for Zayn when you tear him down? You’re just like his father.”

“You know about his father?” James asks.

“Anyone who knows him in the slightest can see what that man does to him,” Harry says snidely.

James shakes his head. “I’m nothing like him.”

“You’re more like him than you think,” Harry tells him. “You may not see it, but I do. And I’m sure Zayn does, too.”

James quietens. His lips are taken between his teeth and, as Harry looks over, he has a disconcerting frown peeling at the seams of his countenance.

“I do care for him,” he says. “I do. It may not seem like it, but I do.”

“Oh, bullying and belittling him. You’d call that care, would you? You have a strange concept of what good friendship is.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“And you would call what you’re doing with him, good? Decent?” James scoffs. “You’re toying with him, only to drop him like a child when the time is right.”

“That’s what you think I’m doing? You think I’m just messing with him? I care about him, James.”

“You care about him,” James repeats, a distaste lingering in his tone. “You’re sneaking around with another _man_ and you… you have a _wife_.”

“What did I tell you about talking of things that aren’t any of your business?” Harry’s jaw tightens with frustration. “I am fully aware of the existence of my wife. And if you think about chastising me, I’ll remind you that you have a wife, too.”

“Just…” he begins but comes to a loss, sighing. “I was serious when I said, if you hurt him I will hurt you.”

“I know you were, James, and I hope you know that it is a mutual threat,” Harry says. “Lucky for me, I have a better hit than you.”

The elevator door slides open and they make their way through the foyer. As they step outside and the chill of the winter air hits Harry’s cheeks—heated by the tension between the two of them—his shoulders relax in calm.  

It’s windy out and a light dusting of snow falls from the sky. It reminds him of Zayn. Harry thinks the snow always will. Christmas, New Years Eve, that evening out at the hut, dancing at Ellen’s club: there was always snow, and it always looked so beautiful landing in Zayn’s hair, on his cheeks, made him look so ethereal and sky-like.

Harry misses him, more than he thought he would, more than he perhaps should.

“I always stand by my word Harry,” James calls to him. “Always.”

Harry looks back to him, tucked in lips and low brows. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Good. Remember it,” he says, before he walks down the street and out of sight.

Harry stands in the street and lets the snow fall over him. 

 

 


	5. build our love with broken sticks

• • XX • •

 

When Harry returns home, a silhouette is sat on the bench outside of his door. He exits his car and makes way to the house. As he swings open the porch door, the man looks up, and when a familiar pair of dark eyes look up to him his shoulders relax.  

“Zayn,” Harry says softly. “You frightened me.”

He smiles. “Sorry.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“Not long. The sun was just setting,” he says.

Harry takes Zayn’s cold hand in his. “Why aren’t you at home? Do you not have to work?”

“I do but I just…” Zayn shrugs. “I needed to see you.”

Harry frowns. “Come on,” he says, unlocking the front door. “It’s freezing.”

“It’s not that bad out. The sun’s been out most of the day.”

“Yes, and now it’s snowing, and your nose is cold.”

Harry steps in after Zayn. He shuts the door, taking off his coat and helping Zayn out of his.

“I thought you said my nose is always cold.” Zayn chuckles.

Harry kisses the tip of his nose. “It is.”

“Come here,” Zayn whispers, before he leans in to Harry and moulds their lips together.

He pushes them back to the wall, and his hands come to wrap around Harry’s shoulders to fiddle with his hair and caress his neck. Harry moans into his mouth, winding his arms around his waist and pulling him closer.

There’s something so urgent in the kiss he almost misses it, but it clings to the edges of his lips as Zayn laps his tongue over and over in desperation.

He cheekily squeezes Zayn’s arse and pulls back. “Tea?”

Zayn smiles. “Yes, please.”

They make their way into the kitchen, hand in hand. Harry puts the kettle on the stove, whilst Zayn leans against the table.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks.

Zayn ties his hands closer around Harry’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong. Why would there be anything wrong?”

“Well, you don’t usually just arrive here unannounced,” Harry points out. “Has something happened?”

“I—No, nothing you don’t know,” Zayn replies. But Harry can sense the resistance in his tone.

“So, this is about…”

“Can’t I just want to see you?”

“Of course you can, darling. But you wouldn’t come here for nothing, especially when I know you have to work.”

It’s a good point; Harry can tell by the way Zayn’s lashes flutter in subtle remonstrance and his eyes, which he’s sure would tell him the truth, avoid him like a blinding light.

“Zayn,” he begins, voice soft, “if there’s something wrong, you can tell me, I hope you know that… Is this about Hoyden?”

Zayn’s eyes move too fast to meet his and look away again in quick succession, and he has his answer. _That fucking cock,_ Harry grumbles in his head.

“Did he say something?”

Zayn sighs and brushes his hand across his face. “He said a lot, he always does.”

“Something that hurt you,” he reiterates.

Zayn falters for a moment, before he speaks. “He said— Oh, Harry you’re going to think I’m just… ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous.”

Harry steps forward and takes their hands together, raising his other to stroke Zayn’s cheek. “No, no I won’t. And even if it is, I’d much rather you talk to me than hide things from me.”

“He told me…” Zayn exhales in frustration. “He told me that you and your wife, you sit and you laugh at me, you laugh _about_ me. And Harry, can I get that fucking idea out of my mind? I can’t. I know it’s just me, I know it’s stupid, but there’s this voice—this pinching voice in my mind and it won’t _shut up_ —”

“What? Zayn,” he coos, and brings him into his arms. _That fucking **cock**_. “Darling, that’s not true. That’s not true at all. These days, Helena and I barely speak to one another, and we wouldn’t have time to mention you even if we did.”

“I know.”

“I promise you, that’s not true,” Harry reassures.

“I know, Harry,” Zayn repeats, sniffling. No tears have shed from his eyes, but Harry sees the threat of sadness trickling in to blur the hazel of his iris’.

Harry kisses his forehead. “The arsehole has no care for anyone but himself, and even that’s questionable. You shouldn’t listen to a word he says.”

“I try not to.”

“And this is why you came to see me?”

“Yes,” Zayn admits. “I just knew that if I came to see you, you’d put an end to my thoughts.”

“Have I helped?”

“Yes, you have.” He smiles half-heartedly. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, I’ll help you in any way I can, always,” Harry says. “Someone should really teach that prick a lesson, huh?”

“I think you’re right.”

“Might as well be me,” Harry suggests.

Zayn shakes his head, a hand falling on Harry’s chest. “No, don’t stoop to his level. He’s just waiting to jump at the chance to prove you’re no better than him. And you are, Harry. You’re so much better.” 

Harry smiles adoringly down at Zayn. “Yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right. But if he continues to say things to you…”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Well, you know where I live if you need me.” Harry chuckles.

“You’ve done more for me than anyone ever has,” Zayn says, sighing in a mix of lament and peace. He tucks his head into Harry’s chest, and Harry strokes his hair. He places kisses all over Zayn’s head and his hair and his cheeks until he’s giggling and Harry feels his chest burst with affection.

“Let’s not dwell on that,” Harry says. “We’re here now, aren’t we? Together. That’s all that matters. I thought I was going to have to wait until Thursday to see you again. I prophesied the week to be so dull, and then I find you on my doorstep, a little gift wrapped in gold.”

“A gift wrapped in gold, huh?” Zayn smirks up at him.

“Yes.” Harry leans down to kiss him. “I had such a tedious day at work. And James was there, being a nuisance as usual. Though, he seemed off today.”

Zayn pulls back, eyes thinned. “Off?”

“Yes. His usual routine of prowling around the office and bullying the workers went unapplied today. He sat at his desk and, apart from trying it on with me and failing like he always does, he didn’t do much.” Harry shrugs. “Perhaps your little show yesterday spooked him.”

Zayn hums, though he sounds unsure. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Do you know something about that?” Harry asks.

Zayn hesitates for a moment, looking as though he’s in deep thought before he shakes his head. “No. Not me, no. I assume he was just having an off day.”

“I think everyday is his off day.” He curls into Zayn’s neck to kiss the skin there waiting to be touched. Zayn moans as his lips land on that _sweet_ spot underneath his ear. “I missed being here.”

“I missed you,” Zayn mumbles. “It was only two days, but I missed you.”  

“I’d have you here everyday, if I could,” Harry says.

He lifts Zayn on to the surface of the table and stands between his legs, and takes the opportunity to delve into Zayn’s mouth as it parts in a moan, and his tongue welcomes him.

Zayn pulls away, but Harry brings him straight back in: like a drug, he’s addicted. He moves his hands swiftly to Zayn’s thighs and brings them around his waist so they’re closer, so their groins threaten to touch.

He loves this. He loves this so much. Harry doesn’t remember the last time he felt this… _alive_ from someone else’s touch—perhaps he never has. No, no one ever has. Not even his wife, not even when they first met and their desire for one another was at its peak and they were in love and they spent nights and days in between their ruffled sheets, becoming one. Not even when he was a boy back home in the joy of pre-war serenity, with his first underneath the trees on Oakfield park, where he thought he’d become a man, when he thought he’d fell in love.

No, no one has ever made him feel the way Zayn does, and it both frightens him and appeases him into submission of what he wants; makes him disregard what is wrong for what feels right.

They’ve progressed so much in such a short space of time. Four months ago, Harry didn’t even know Zayn existed. Four months ago, all Harry knew was that he had a wife and a sufficient job and he wasn’t complete with either. And now here he is, with this man, who is so fragile and yet so resilient, so damaged and yet defying the corruption his scars bring, in his arms, on his table, kissing him and touching him, and helping him relocate the heart he thought he’d lost.

The kettle on the stove whistles and wails, but it’s ignored. They’re too lost in one another to care.

“Harry,” Zayn speaks through a lust-lavished gasp. “Harry.”

“I want you,” Harry says, like a sinner in confession.

“Harry, the tea…”

“Fuck the tea, Zayn.” He bites at Zayn’s neck. “I want you.”

“Harry.” Zayn moans. He brings his body forward and presses them against against one other. “What about Helena?”

“She’s not here. She’s left already. And she’ll be gone all night. We can do whatever we want,” Harry murmurs into Zayn’s skin, teasing him.

“Baby,” Zayn pants, as Harry rests his hand down on Zayn’s crotch to attenuate some of the tension there.  

 _Baby?_ Harry smirks and his crotch twitches. _That’s new._ He winds his hand around Zayn’s neck and pushes their lips back together.

Harry thinks their tongues were made to fit together—swirling in need, coaxing their deepest desires to evince in desperate grabs and rough, caring motions and the most saccharine of kisses.

It’s wrong. It’s _very_ wrong. And for a passing second, Harry remembers what he has to do, he’s reminded of the conflict in his heart that tears him apart in those moments where he zones out to escape and finds himself trapped. But he flees back into the corners of Zayn’s mouth, his hips as they grind to find friction against his, and his lips, his sweet lips that have saved him from the so many haunting nightmares in the awakenings of stark nights.

He needs this. Harry needs this, to let him forget, to help him figure out what is so pulling him back from the awakened morality that seeps from the crevices of his heart, the lingering taste on his tongue that makes him want to be a better man for Zayn. Only for Zayn.

“I want you,” Harry repeats. He nips at Zayn’s lip. “Don’t you want me?”

“Oh, Harry,” Zayn pines, and kisses him again with such passion it makes Harry’s legs weak. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Harry groans. “You do?”

“Yes,” he admits. “Yes, I want you. I want you, Harry.”

Oh, that’s it. It's as simple as those words falling from his lips. A grant, a scroll of acceptance, an invitation— permission to seek that craving nicotine can't satisfy. Zayn leans to him; Harry consumes his warmth.

Securing Zayn’s legs around his waist, he takes them up the stairs in hurried stumbles of twos. The sheets cool their heated skin as he presses Zayn’s back into them. They’re still wound around one another, deep in each other’s mouths, each other’s minds. Harry makes a mental note to remind himself that Zayn loves it when the adjacent point underneath his knees are traced along with his fingers, how it leaps his leg into a quivering jolt at the touch.

Slowly, meticulously, Harry pops each of Zayn’s shirt buttons, keeping his lips attached somewhere to his skin; whether it’s his lips, or his neck, or his chest, as the V of his shirt exposes his smooth skin, his pink and erect nipples that call Harry’s name. He presses his tongue over them and listens to Zayn moan in delight.

Oh, he _adores_ that sound.

Zayn lifts to shed his shirt and drops it to the floor. He lies back into the bed and waits, wriggling impatiently. Harry takes his lips down over his crotch and kisses the fabric covering his pulsing loins that just _ache_ for Harry’s touch to feel raw and real on his skin. 

“Harry,” he whines, watching him pop the first button open, and the second, undoing the zipper painfully slow, teasingly controlled. “Harry, please.”

Harry hooks his fingers into the seams of both Zayn’s pants and briefs, whilst his eyes linger up to the desperate face of longing above him. “Call me baby again.”

“What?” Zayn asks, panting.  

“I liked it when you called me baby,” he confesses. “Call it me again, I’ll give you what you want.” _I’ll give you all of me._

“Harry…”

“Go on,” he encourages, with a nip to his hip bone that makes his waist thrust up.

Hesitance divides the passion of his face, the hand in Harry’s hair stilling for the quietest of seconds, before he swallows and utters, softly: “Harry, baby.”  

Harry’s vanity pops in satisfaction, and he moves himself against the edge of the bed to find a fraction of ease in his own trousers. As promised, he eases Zayn out of his trousers and his briefs, pulls them all the way down his legs, and drops them in a pile at the end of his bed.

He lies on the bed, naked, painting the picture of an Adonis as his tanned skin sprawls across his white sheets that are usually so, so lonely. Harry can’t help but part his mouth; in wonder and in awe. He doesn’t think his bed has ever looked this fucking good.

Zayn is a vascular type of desire—his seductive hands wrap around Harry’s libido and squeeze. His tainted lips find Zayn’s groin, his thighs, that shadowed skin on the mark just above his cock that makes him itch and writhe under Harry’s touch.

“Say it again,” he orders. 

“Baby,” Zayn repeats, more willing and confident.  

“Again.” His cock pulses.

“Baby.”

“Again, darling.”

“Oh, baby,” he cries, as Harry threatens his lips over the tip of Zayn’s reddened and throbbing cock. “Baby, baby. Please, baby.”

“What do you want me to do, Zayn?”

“Take me,” he says in a gasp, without a pause to think. “Take me, please. All of me.”

 _Oh fuck,_ Harry thinks, because how is he going to control himself when Zayn says things like that to him? Take all of him? Oh, he will. Greedily so. But for now…

“I want to go slow,” Harry drawls. “I want to enjoy this. I want you to enjoy it with me, as much as me. I want you to see that your pleasure is my pleasure. I want you to see, it’s you. It’s only you, sweetheart. You are the only one I would do this for. You are the only one worthy enough.”

Zayn yells out when Harry finally takes him into his mouth. And Harry takes him deep—deep enough so he gags over Zayn and he can feel him pulsing in the back of his throat. And, _oh_ , Harry thinks he tastes so good, so salty and sweet and satisfying on his tongue that he doesn’t want to let go.

He wraps his other hand around Zayn’s length and pumps to maximise his pleasure. His tongue twirls around him like Zayn is a goddamn pole and he’s the stripper, feeling every inch of his skin, popping him out of his mouth and caressing him in the ways Zayn taught him how to.

Harry thinks this will always be special for them, pleasuring each other in this way. Because, in the expanse of what the word means, Zayn has been Harry’s first. Harry hadn’t ever even had a cock _near_ his mouth until he met Zayn, yet alone _in_ it. The concept alone is strange now, considering how willing he is to disarm his pride and drop to his knees at any moment to please Zayn in this way. But he can’t help it; that’s what the man does to him. He makes him want to feel and give and… ~~love~~  desire in this way, in a way he never has before.

It’s like a favourite song he plays on repeat, and he hasn’t figured out all the chords yet, the fortissimo of the chorus he knows is sure to come, but he’s sure damn willing to find out. As long as he can do it in Zayn’s arms.

“Angel,” Zayn calls him breathlessly. Harry hums, but doesn’t stop blowing him. “I want you… I want you to fuck me.”

Harry’s closed eyes shoot open, and he pops Zayn from his tongue though his mouth stays parted wide. “What?”

“I told you, I want you to take me,” he replies, drunken smile and rosy cheeks. “I want you to take all of me.”

Harry crawls up Zayn’s body and takes his cheek in his hand. He can’t deny the excitement that fizzes at the tips of his fingers, his toes, his groin as he replays Zayn’s words in his mind. Take him, here, on his bed?

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said if I wasn’t. Do you want to? Do you want me in that way?”

He sighs and kisses Zayn. “Yes. I’ve wanted to for so long, I was just waiting on you. You hold all the cards here, baby.”

Zayn smiles wide. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

Harry bites his lip as he looks down at Zayn, acquiescing to his wild thoughts in this moment. “You want me to do that thing you showed me?”

Zayn smirks up at him. “Yes, Harry, I would. Very much.”

Harry laps his tongue over Zayn’s briefly before he begins, with pepper kisses, to trail back down Zayn’s body. Zayn claws at Harry’s back, his biceps, his hair, as he slides down between his thighs, moaning in a high pitch that’s soft and gentle against the sheets.

He can’t help himself when he pushes his mouth back down onto Zayn’s cock and bobs and tastes the premature spill of semen on his tongue. Harry pushes Zayn’s thighs further apart, lifts them slightly into the air, and moves his head down lower, moving his tongue in short licks over that sensitive spot that makes Zayn cry out and squirm.

“Fuck, Harry,” he whines, and pulls at Harry’s hair hard.

Harry continues to lap his tongue around Zayn’s hole, remembering how _exquisite_ and mind-shattering this felt when Zayn showed this to him for the first time, knowing in certainty that he wants to exact that pleasure back onto him; greater, sweeter, in ways that will make Zayn never want to let go of him.

This feeling is too strong; a craving, like the flowers in winter desire the spring to bring them back to life. He’s in between Zayn’s thighs, consuming him, licking every inch of him. As Zayn’s legs wrap around his neck and squeeze him closer, Harry pushes his mouth harder against him, deeper, moves their bodies as close as they can be to one another to ensure no drop of arousal is victorious enough to escape the merciless waves of his tongue. 

 _God, this man is heaven_ , Harry thinks, his thighs the parted gates that welcome him, like he belongs here. Harry doesn’t remember the last time his cock throbbed with anything but lust. Now, he’s hard with adoration, with passion, and the desire to treat Zayn like a prince. Harry is on his knees for this beauty; his pride ascends him and shatters the bedroom window on its way out.

He continues until Zayn’s legs are trembling on his shoulders, and he’s panting between lascivious proclamations that he needs Harry and writhes of pleasure.

He clambers back up Zayn’s body, leaving stripes of kisses and flicks of his tongue across the skin his mouth can reach along the way. Zayn is quick to pull him into a trance of greed and lust, locked between his teeth and his eyes and his breath as he presses their mouths flush to one another.

Whilst Zayn scrambles to unbutton Harry’s shirt, Harry swoops down into the crevice of his neck to leave a constellation of bruises that will shine even after the sun has risen in the sky. Zayn doesn’t wait until Harry’s shirt or pants are off to take his cock into hand and stroke his ready skin.

“God, Zayn,” Harry chokes in surprise. “You are so exquisite.”

“Oh, wait,” Zayn says. Harry has to hide his displeasure as Zayn releases him and shuffles off the bed. Harry takes the moment to strip of the rest of his clothes, not taking his eyes off Zayn’s cute, little arse, as he walks to Helena’s vanity. He picks up a small jar and brings it back to bed.

Harry pulls him back underneath him in a possessive way. “What’s this?” Harry asks.

Zayn hands it to him. “Lubricant.”

“Lubricant?” Frowning, he looks down to the jar, where under the dim lighting of the moon that shines through the window he sees the label printed in white and black. “Vaseline.”

“We need something… slippy,” Zayn explains. “To make things smooth.”

“Oh,” Harry says, voice unsure. “And I put this… where?”

“Over your cock, Harry.” Zayn giggles with reddened cheeks and a bitten lip. “Do you want me to do it?”

“Yes,” he responds quickly.

“Okay.”

Zayn takes the jar from him, opens the lid, and dips in. He glides his slick fingers around Harry’s cock, playing with him for a minute, leaning down to quickly kiss the tip before finding Harry’s lips again. He takes what remains on his fingers and rolls it over his arse and thighs and opens them so Harry can slip between. They fall back onto the sheets with tongues intertwined.

Harry takes the hand still pumping his cock and holds it above Zayn’s head. “If you keep touching me, I’ll orgasm before we get to do anything.”

“That’s okay, I’d get you going again,” Zayn whispers into is ear.

“I’m sure you would,” he says. “But I want to go slow.”

“But I’m impatient.”

Harry kisses his pout away. “I know you are, baby. But I want to discover every piece of you, worship you.”

“Oh, Harry.” Zayn sighs, and brings their mouths together in such passion that it stings some deep flexion in the back of his eyes, in the bridge of his nose.

Harry’s hands are dexterous and skilled as they roam the streets of Zayn’s skin. Zayn’s mouth his parted wide, his breath exasperated and on the verge of delicacy.

Deciding the taste of him is better than any wine, Harry ventures down the trail of his breasts, circling at his nipples, and draws his tongue further down to Zayn’s thighs, to sip the intoxication leaking from his tip. But the force of Zayn’s hands against his shoulder prevent Harry from reaching what he grasps for. Zayn pulls him back up to meet his eyes. They’re chest to chest, with the erratic beat of Zayn’s heart that Harry riled up pounding against his in the most luxurious way, and he admires the pure and honest lechery he finds in Zayn’s eyes.

“I don’t want you down there,” Zayn whispers. His voice is brimmed with lust and longing. “I want you up here.”

He pulls Harry’s mouth up to taste him, his-self, both of them at once. They moan together, their cocks in alignment and throbbing against one another. Harry breaks away to find Zayn’s soul-swimming eyes.

“I want to feel you, Harry. I want to feel you inside of me.”

Harry groans and pushes Zayn further back into the sheets. He raises both Zayn’s hands above his head and claims every inch of him he can reach. In this moment, Zayn is his; not in dominance, but in admiration and desire, just as Harry is his.

The lubrication on Zayn’s inner thighs meets Harry’s cock. He rubs against it, longing to be inside of Zayn but making him wait. To tease him, to taunt him. He waits for Zayn to beg him to breach his body, to willingly take him in like he’s a drug and he wants to steal the high. He watches Zayn’s body practically implore to be touched. He thrusts against Zayn’s thigh a little harder. God, Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of looking at this man. 

"You are so beautiful," he whispers.

The tips of his ghostly touch skim down the contours of Zayn’s skin, dipping with each arch and caressing his curves. He shudders and reels into him. 

“Please, Harry,” he begs in a luscious whine. “Please, baby. I want you. I _need_ you.”

“Are you sure about this?” Harry asks. _I don’t want you to regret anything._

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Just take me, Harry, please.”

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Zayn reaches his arms around Harry’s back and pulls them even closer, so the tip of Harry’s swollen cock knocks his most sensitive point. Harry takes his cock in hand and brushes it against Zayn’s arse. They’re pulsing, they’re quaking. With tender intertwinement and the heat of Zayn’s touch making him whole, Harry carefully, so gently, eases into Zayn, and they consume.

They both gasp in pleasure, Harry taking his leisurely time entering Zayn.

 _Finally,_ Harry thinks in satisfaction. _Finally_. And from the solid bliss in his face as he looks down to Zayn, ruby-cheeked and plumped lips and eyes as wild as fire, he knows Zayn feels the same way.

Harry’s hips form a beat, a rhythm compatible with the unsteadiness of Zayn’s breaths; of his gratifying gasps that morph to moans on his tongue, only satiable by the next thrust. The bed begins to move with them and the wooden floorboards below them creak in encouragement.

“Yes,” Zayn cries. “Oh, fuck, Harry!”

Harry doesn’t think it’s ever felt this good. This sweet and consuming and extraordinary. The world could be falling apart outside their window, fires and pitchforks and blazing screams of the end, but they wouldn’t notice. They wouldn’t care. In this moment, the room is their entire world, and they fulfil it like it’s the last fateful thing left for them to do.

Harry kisses him but his lips don’t linger: they wander anywhere they can reach: from Zayn’s neck, to the valley of his chest, to the twirl of his tongue over the sensitive summit of Zayn’s nipples, and back up to his lips that call for him in each breath. 

And Zayn lets him devour every part of his body, whilst his hands are laced within Harry’s hair and Zayn’s body arches to his touches, like they’re destined to be one; whilst Harry is thrusting and pushing Zayn’s thighs over his waist and locking them together, and he holds on like he’s going to fall through the floor if Harry lets go; whilst their eager whines breach the border of climax, and the patterned paper around them drips with their shame and glistening sin, and the headboard is howling against the wall and indenting marks they won’t be able to disclose tomorrow.

“Harry,” Zayn says, his tone raising pitch with every moan. Harry knows he’s close.

The remarkable countenance Zayn wears as he breaks down his walls for him—the numb realisation of disbelief that Harry has let go of his own, so effortlessly—he will never forget. Zayn claws at his back, drooling Harry’s name, leaving marks on his back that will remind him of this moment for weeks to come, as lays down in this bed—empty or not, with Zayn or without him.

"Oh, baby." Harry’s eyes clench shut. He breaths heavy with every thrust: low and sensual and compatible with Zayn’s. "Fuck."

Zayn’s thighs tighten around his waist. He begins to shake, his moans becoming louder and louder until Harry is sure the window lattice will shimmer with glass. But Harry only encourages him by moving quicker, _loving_ the way Zayn’s moans sound as they reverberate off the walls of his home.

There’s no one around to hear them; Zayn could scream the whole house down and the peace would still be kept. There’s no incessant wife or intruding co-workers. It’s just them, doing whatever they please and relishing in it, giving themselves to one another in this willing damnation that is their secret.  

Harry is close, too. The knot in the pit of his groin unravels more by the second as he pushes in and out. He leans down to grab Zayn’s lips in his to swallow the name oozing from his mouth like it's the air he needs to breathe.

"Don't stop," Zayn begs, nails digging into Harry’s biceps. “Don’t stop, Harry.”

He rocks his body against the rhythm of Zayn’s. Knees weak, skin moisture-layered and glistening in the moonlight.

"Oh Harry, I-" he falls short in a cry.

“I’ve got you, darling," Harry purrs. “Let go.”

Zayn trembles, his legs going slack around Harry’s waist, and then he peaks. He orgasms in a wave of tremors, grappling to Harry like a lifeline. With a glance at his face, his splendour, craze-filled face, Harry finds his own high. It's camouflaged in a mist of stars and lights and a darkness where Zayn’s pleasure reflects beneath his eyes, rides with him through the kick. As he floats back down to earth, it’s Zayn’s grounding and heavenly post-sex kisses on his neck that calm him.

A serene silence consumes them. Zayn strokes Harry’s hair; Harry lays on Zayn’s chest and listens to the beat of his heart and draws circles on his shoulder and admires the softness of his tacky skin. Lassitude invades his eyes with a sting. Zayn yawns above him.

In the peaceful silence that dwells, for a moment of rare surety, Harry feels a sense of home: something he hasn’t felt in a long time, a reward no one else he’s laid with could offer him—no flapper, or whore, or any other woman, no other man. Not even his own wife.

Zayn’s arms protect Harry from the cold, harsh reality that waits for him outside of this moment, outside of this house. It dwells like a virus, trying to seep its way in to hisbloodstream and remind him of what he’s done—what he must do. For now, he manages to ignore it and instead  revels in the gratification of this memory and how warm his bed feels with Zayn in it with him.

He loves having Zayn beside him, underneath him—in which way, it doesn’t matter. The mornings where he wakes with the bed empty beside him are the days where the loneliness truly sinks in again. Having Zayn here now… it makes those cold mornings feel even more bitter.

Zayn is the only warmth he can handle, the only warmth that is incomparable to the sting of juice or drugs. If it was up to him, if he could, Harry would have him here every morning and every night, just like this. In post-coital daze and… happiness.

But he fears that’s all going to be sabotaged. And, like everything else in his life, it’s going to be self-inflicted.

He kisses the shoulder beside him and gazes up at Zayn. His cheeks are still painted crimson, eyes shut in peace, half the hair that was held in his quiff now laying sprawled out like a halo around him.

How divine he is. 

"Don't leave me," Harry whispers.

It's so quiet that only he hears it, but the emotion that becomes him is a roaring echo off the walls of his skull, pounding, like there is a thousand feet that stamp and cheer him on. But he can't say another word. In this moment, he has no voice. All he can do is stare.

Slowly, Zayn’s eyes trickle open and find his. He wears a lazy smile, all sated and amused. He leans down to kiss Harry’s head.

“How was that?” he asks.

“Incredible. You’re so incredible,” Harry replies, leaning up to kiss him. “But you know, I’ve had a taste now… I’ll want more.”

“You can have more.” Zayn grins, smug. _His little devil._ “But not now. I’m tired.”

Harry hums. “I guess I’ll endure the wait.”

“You must.”

Harry frowns when he hears Zayn’s stomach grumble. “Have you eaten?”

“No. I haven’t found the time.”

“Baby.” Harry groans. He sits up on his knees, between Zayn’s thighs, with a pout. “You know it’s important. Come, I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Harry, no. I just want to stay here for a while with you,” Zayn says. He tries to pull Harry back down to the bed, but he’s not having it.

“Well, if you’d have eaten, we could still be.” He stands to his feet and pull his trousers up, whilst he throws his shirt on the bed. “It’s important to keep your energy up for strenuous activities.”

Zayn’s pout turns into a grin. “Strenuous activities, huh?”

Harry hums. “I’m hungry, too. I don’t think I’ve eaten today either now that I think about it. Not since breakfast.”

“Then you’re no better.”

Zayn sits off the edge of the bed, moving slowly as to not irritate the soreness between his legs. He grabs his own shirt from the floor to wipe the cum that stains his chest and buttons Harry’s shirt onto himself.

Harry can’t help but just stand and stare at Zayn, who sits there in his white shirt that falls to his thighs, looking so _fucking_ sexy. Harry doesn’t know how he does it; the man isn’t even doing anything for him to be aroused at, but Harry feels that twitch in his groin.

He takes Zayn’s hand. “Do you want me to carry you?”

“Why on earth would you carry me?” He laughs.

“Because you’re sore.”

“Harry, I don’t—” Zayn begins to object, but Harry already has him whisked into his arms, bridle style, and makes him giggle.

They leave the bedroom, and Harry walks them carefully downstairs and into the kitchen. Harry places Zayn down on the countertop, who squirms at how cold it is on his thighs.

Somehow, Harry ends up kissing him, and Zayn’s legs are around his waist again, and he can feel Zayn’s hips thrust towards him as his cock, hidden only by the thin material of Harry’s shirt, begins to harden again.

Harry pulls away, cherry-lipped and aching for more, like a greedy beggar who’s found his fix.

“Supper?”

“If you’re making.”

“Toast?”

“I’d prefer a sandwich, actually,” Zayn says, before adding, “if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine, darling.” He lifts Zayn off the side. “Go sit in the dining room. I’ll bring it into you in a minute.”

“With some tea?” Zayn asks with a smile; a cheeky, heart-warming smile that Harry can’t help but lean forward to taste.

“Yes, with some tea. Some warm tea, this time.”

Zayn disappears out of the kitchen and Harry washes his hands before opening the bread.

The small jar of Vaseline he slipped into his pocket sits hot and heavy, waiting to be used again. _Just in case,_ Harry thought when he picked it up, like the insatiable man he is. Just in case Zayn decides to let Harry have him—on the kitchen counter, on the dining room table, on the living room chairs, on the cupboards that litter the house, against any of the walls or the floors, Harry wouldn’t object. Of course he wouldn’t.

 _In front of the fire_. _Oh, how romantic,_ Harry thinks with a grin, before shaking his head and returning to the moment. What has come over him? A duplicitous beast and its name is Desire, goaded by the silkiness and the lush presence of the man who sits in the next room, who is still able to arouse him just by mere thoughts.

There’s a shy demon hanging on the corners of his conscious, and it slinks in slowly.

By the time Harry realises what this all means, and he thinks he’s known for a little while in small facets of ways that have built gradually but only now in this moment when it summits does it dawn, that he’s dug himself a grave too deep to climb out of. The earth has sunk him too far from the surface, but he’s not even trying to clamber and claw back up. Because at the top, he sees Zayn’s face shining down at him, holding out his hand, and it doesn’t seem all that dark.

Harry slides the platter of sandwiches and tea in front of Zayn, who’s eyes have wandered off nonchalantly in search of the room. Zayn returns to him in a sleepy grin.

“Thank you,” he says, croaky.

“You’re welcome, darling.” Harry kisses his forehead and slips into the chair beside him. “It’s just cheese. I’m in need of more food. Helena hasn’t got around to shopping since she’s gone for work more and I always forget. I’m useless at things like that.”

“Harry, it’s fine. It’s more than fine, cheese is expensive. I would have been happy with just bread and butter.” 

Harry’s face contorts to object. “I wasn’t going to just give you bread and butter, Zayn.”

“I know you weren’t, but it’s what I lived on as a child. Mainly just bread, no butter,” Zayn says with a shrug, as if that’s _normal._ “Cheese is a luxury.”

“Most things are a luxury to you,” he mutters.

“Well, that is true,” he replies, before starting on his sandwich.

Harry watches him eat with a delicate smile. He likes watching him eat, makes him feel better about himself in ways, but he likes to know that Zayn is being taken care of, that he’s okay. It’s more important to him than he realises, and he only remembers in moments like this how much he really cares for the man—it’s a slap in the face that doesn’t fail to surprise him every time.

He cares for Zayn, in every possible way he can. But it’s the small moments, like the ones where he yawns, or he giggles as Harry brushes a sensitive part on his body, or when he smiles and looks so entranced by his books, or when he lets Harry feed him and take care of him, or that pivotal look on his face as he orgasms that makes Harry’s day turn around—it’s those moments that are most special to him. It’s those moments that mean the most to Harry.

It’s those moments that are pointing, like a flashing red arrow, to his chest and applauding as his heart screams out of regular tune. But he ignores them; he must, otherwise it just makes everything so much more complicated.

“Is it good?”

“The best,” Zayn mumbles with a mouthful of food. He breaks half his sandwich off and proffers it to Harry. “Here.”

“No,” Harry demurs. “You eat it.”

“Harry, you haven’t eaten all day, either.”

“I made it for you.”

“Well, I’m not going to eat it. So you can eat it or throw it away,” Zayn says, stubbornly.

Harry sighs and shakes his head, begrudgingly taking the sandwich from Zayn and biting into it. His pride makes him grumble in objection, but he doesn’t deny enjoying it. And Zayn knows that, too, from the smirk he wears on his lips.

When he’s done, Harry places the plate back on the platter and divides the tea between them.

“Honey?” Zayn asks.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Harry. My throat is sore, I must have bust it.”

“I have no clue as to why.” They laugh. “I must say, tea is my strong suit. Sandwiches on the other hand are not.” He chuckles.

“That’s not what I was thanking you for. I meant, thank you for everything. For the clothes, the food, the hospitality…”

“You don’t have to thank me, darling. I did those things because I wanted to, and you deserve them.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t deserve them. I don’t think I deserve any of this.”

“Well, you think wrong.” Harry inches closer and wraps his warm hand along Zayn’s cheek. “You deserve this, all of this, and more. More than I can give you. I think you deserve the world.”

Zayn scoffs, eyes glinting under the soft glow of the lamp behind them. “Well, you think wrong,” he mimics.

“No, I don’t,” he disagrees. “I’m not wrong, not when it comes to you, believe me.”  

“I do,” Zayn says softly, and his hand comes to fall over Harry’s. “You treat me so good, Harry.”

“I treat you in only the ways you deserve. I treat you only in the best of ways. And I will, always,” Harry promises. He feels the literal drop of his heart in his chest, and the ache that follows.

Zayn leans forward to kiss him, and Harry takes him in with such passion. He falls on to the floor in front of Zayn, parting his thighs. Zayn nips on his lip before he pulls away. To Harry’s satisfaction, he doesn’t protest when his shirt is lifted up and Harry takes his hardening cock back into his hand in a perfect fit.

“Now, let me take care of you.”

Zayn gasps and grips the side of the table to steady himself. “It’s not even been an hour.”

“I’m greedy, haven’t I told you? Well, now you know. I still want you, Zayn. It wasn’t a onetime thing. I want to taste you again,” he tells, before dipping his head down onto Zayn’s cock.

And Zayn, to his fortune, laces his hand into Harry’s hair, thrusts his hips up, and rolls his head against the back of the chair to revel in the pleasure.

Harry takes him again on the dining room table, and again in the early hours of the morning in front of the fire, where they lie and joke until the sun rises and they fall asleep with a blanket thrown over them.

The sound of the front door slamming shut wakens Harry from his slumber. Zayn is still asleep beside him, with soft snores and sleepy sighs escaping his parted lips. Harry would smile, if it wasn’t for the glance he makes to the living room door and sees Helena’s dress disappear around the corner.

His head falls back to the floor with a curse. His wife has spent so many nights away from home recently that he wasn’t even expecting her to return today. It’s his bloody luck that she comes home the morning he and Zayn are half-naked together, in front of the fire, sharing a blanket. Lucky for him, whilst Zayn is still naked in his glory, Harry re-dressed into his briefs before he fell asleep, and can follow straight after Helena.

He finds her in the kitchen with her back to the door, leaning on the counter. Harry attempts to put his arm around her waist, but she squirms from the touch.

“Why is _he_ here?” she asks, her voice rough and tired, and yet still finding the energy to be filled with venom. “Why are you with him? Why are you both— _Ugh_ , why is he here, Harry?”

“He’s my friend,” Harry says. The word tastes strangely insufficient on his tongue.

“Do you fall asleep half naked in front of the fire with all your friends?” Her hands are on her hips, eyes exhausted and yet alive with anger and hurt.

“I’m just comforting him, Lena,” he lies. “Zayn has a hard life.”

“Yes, no doubt. It’s not like you to flounder about with homeless people.”  

Harry grits his jaw. “He’s not _homeless.”_

“Oh, I’m sure. You’ve been letting him stay here, haven’t you?” When Harry remains silent, she repeats, “Haven’t you?”

“Yes, some nights I have,” he argues. “You forget that you don’t come home, and I get lonely. You know I don’t like being alone, Helena. Don’t blame me.”

“I blame you,” she bites back. “I blame you.”

“Helena, he’s not—”

“I know what he is,” she interrupts him in a raised voice. Harry shushes her, as to not wake Zayn. “I know exactly what he is, just like I know what every other woman you’ve brought back here is, too. Although, I expected you to show a little more class than to bring a piece of _trash_ from off the streets into our home.”

“He’s not—” Harry starts in a defensive shout but lowers his voice. “He’s not _a piece of trash._ Don’t call him that. I won’t allow it.”

“I’m not an idiot, despite how much you think so, Harry.”

“I know you aren’t an idiot, Helena.”

“Then why do you treat me as such?”

“I don’t,” he defends, though he knows Helena is right.

She scoffs. “You know, you’ve surprised me. Women—cheap, indifferent whores—I can deal with. Women you won’t ever see again, women who mean nothing to you. But _a man?_ You’ve truly astounded me. A man, the first that I know of at that. I didn’t even know you liked—And to think of.. _._ You’ve me questioning everything, Harry. I don’t even know who my own husband is.”

Harry hears it, then—the crack in her voice, and the split dam that begins to trickle down her anger-painted cheeks. It dawns on him how much this may have affected her, in more ways than he thought. And yet, despite the fact she is his wife, Harry doesn’t reach for her to comfort, to reconcile, or find peace with—he knows Helena would just push him away. In fact, and this is probably what worries him the most, he doesn’t want to touch her, he doesn’t want to comfort her. It’s only the good, moral man inside of him that makes him feel the guilt in his chest.

No, all Harry can think about is how Zayn lies in the room down the hall, unaware, expecting Harry to come lay back down beside him. All he can think about is the warmth of Zayn’s touch waiting for him, and the contrast of the cold and broken state he’s receiving from his wife that he most definitely deserves.

Instinctively, in habit, Harry reaches his thumb out to wipe a tear from her cheek, and Helena lets him, but when he notices her falling into the touch he pulls away. The flicker of affection that sheets her eyes is pulled away to expose the betrayal and anger that was there before.

“So, you’re having an affair,” she whispers.

“No,” he says, though he doesn’t feel like it’s an exact lie.

Because he’s standing in front of Helena, and he can’t help but feel as though he doesn’t know her anymore, either. He can’t help but notice how much closer he is to Zayn than he is to her, how his posture tightens in her presence like it would in a stranger’s. He can’t help but notice, incredulous at the idea in his mind, how it feels as though he’s cheating on Zayn with his wife.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snaps.

 _Why break a habit?_ He longs to say, but he bites his tongue.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.

“The truth, Harry. I want the truth.”

“I thought you were adamant you already knew.”

“So, I’m right?” She looks to him, resent hard in her eyes.

He remains silent, but it’s answer enough.

She laughs in a broken voice, biting her lip and blinking back the unshed tears in her eyes. She looks so tired, so worn out and weak. The sight pulls a long lost string in Harry’s chest that’s hanging by it’s very last thread.

“Well, as long as I’m your wife I will live here, too. And I am going to sleep, in my bed, in my house. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Harry quickly thinks to the rumpled sheets and Zayn’s clothes laying at the end of their bed. He suppresses an unkind smile. “Would you like some tea?”

She sighs. “Yes. With honey.”

He frowns. _That’s Zayn’s thing._ “We’re all out of honey,” he lies.

“Okay,” she says in a quiet voice, before shuffling out of the room and up the stairs with one last look at her husband.

 _What a fucking mess,_ Harry thinks. This is why he tries to avoid having both Zayn and Helena in the house simultaneously. It was destined to end in disaster, and now it has.

He returns to the living room to see Zayn awake. He’s sat up in front of the fire that’s dimming with burnt wood, with the blanket wrapped around his waist. Harry comes to sit down beside him and wraps an arm around his waist.

“Good morning,” Harry drawls, kissing his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Zayn replies.

Harry takes note of his indifferent tone, how Zayn doesn’t even glance back to look at him, and instead keeps his eyes trained into the dimmed flames ahead. He exhales and rests his chin on Zayn’s shoulder.

“So you heard?” he asks.

“The walls are thin.”

“I’m sorry, darling. She can be judgmental at times—”

“Am I really just a friend?” he asks quietly. “Still, after… _all this?”_

Harry grimaces. _A mess this is._ “No. Of course you’re not, darling. I just say that to Helena to convince her nothing is happening between us.”

“But something _is_ happening between us.” Zayn finally turns around to look at him, his eyes gentle, brows hard and distinguished. “Does all this mean nothing to you?”

“Zayn, you know this means the most to me, having you here,” he assures.

“Then, why don’t you just tell your wife the truth?”

Harry unwinds his arm from Zayn. “It’s not that simple, Zayn.”

“It _is_ that simple. It’s not like she doesn’t already know from the sound of it,” Zayn’s says, voice almost pleading. “Harry, if you’re—if you’re ashamed of me…”

Harry’s eyes shoot up. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know, you won’t tell me.”

“No, it’s not that. Zayn, it’s not you. It’s…” He chuckles, ironically. “It’s my fault we’re even in this mess. I’ve told you, I’m a greedy man.”

“Yes, you are.”

“It’s…” Harry babbles for a moment with his tongue but comes up empty. He respires in frustration. “I’m trying to figure out what this means. How can I be attracted to my wife _and_ attracted to you? I don’t know what that means, Zayn.”

Zayn takes Harry’s hand in his. “It doesn’t mean anything, Harry. You can like both men _and_ women.”

“But how?”

Zayn shrugs. “It’s one of the mysteries of the new world. But it’s a good mystery. It’s something that brought you and I together.”

 

Harry takes a moment and closes his eyes to think. Because if he’s honest, he’s not being entirely truthful with himself. Helena isn’t the problem, nor is Zayn. It’s _him._ There’s a war waging in his mind, and he doesn’t think there’s a safe route out of this one. If he goes back, he’ll hurt Zayn, _break him_. But if he goes forward… it’s Zayn and him against the world. Zayn and him against thousands and thousands of twisted, scrupulous glares, and the weight of that…

And Boss, and Tarol, and Hoyden? _Fuck_ , what has he done now?

“I think you should go home, Zayn.”

“What?” Zayn asks in a whisper. “Why?”

“I just—Look, just go home, okay? I need some space, I need time to think.”

“About what?” Zayn’s voice is raised. “Harry, about what? What is there to think about?”

“Everything, Zayn,” he snaps, and Zayn flinches back. “Everything. And I can’t think about anything when you’re around.”

“Harry…” Zayn reaches out to touch his cheek, but Harry deters his hand before it touches his skin.

Harry stands to his feet, looking down to the floor, his knuckles, his rings—anywhere but Zayn’s face he knows looks lost and rejected.

“I’ll give you a minute to dress.”

A quiet silence, and Harry thinks he can almost hear the ripple inside Zayn’s chest. Zayn stands to his feet with a hurt scoff, as Harry looks away from him.

“Yes, act like you haven’t seen me naked,” Zayn bites. “I suppose you’re going to go jump into bed with your wife now, huh? Since you’ve had enough of your little _whore_.”

“Zayn, don’t do this.” He sighs.

“Don’t worry, Harry, it’s much easier with her. She has a nice, _slick_ pussy for you to fuck.” Zayn grabs the Vaseline from the small table and throws it at him.

Harry catches it as it hits his chest. “Zayn, please don’t make this more difficult.”

Zayn pulls on his briefs and his pants, grumbling to himself. He slips on the shirt that lies on the floor, which happens to be Harry’s but he says nothing, and stomps past Harry into the hallway to grab his shoes. He doesn’t even bother lacing them up.

There’s something so bittersweet about the situation, something so temptingly chaotic. Half of Harry is pleading for Zayn to stay, and the other half can’t wait to see him go. And for the love of God can he figure out what it means, what he’s supposed to do. He just stands in the hallway, watching Zayn with conflicting eyes, whilst the man scrambles in panic to get himself together. He sees the flourish of tears in Zayn’s eyes shine in his reflection on the mirror.

_What has he done?_

“I can drive you back—”

“No,” Zayn interrupts, voice harsh and separated. “I can make my way home. I don’t need you.”

For a glimmering second, Harry sobers and reaches out for Zayn, but Zayn swats his hand away like he’s a disease.

“I hope you had fun,” Zayn says roughly. “I sure as hell did.”

“Zayn—” Harry begins, but it’s too late.

By the time Harry can even _think_ of what to say, Zayn is out of the house, with a slam of the front door and the sound of his boots heavy against the porch.

And Harry just stands there, as a loneliness he managed to avoid all night sinks in. Minutes go by and he waits there. A small piece of his mind is expecting, hoping, that Zayn will walk back through the door and walk into his arms and forgive him.

But it’s a pipe dream. In minutes, in a mere second, Harry manages to unravel the incredible night they shared and morph it into one of resentment and betrayal. Harry cynically thinks that self-sabotage may be his vocation.

He hears Helena’s light footsteps pad down the stairs.

“Harry, have you seen my Vaseline?”

His fingers tighten around the small jar in his palm, still rested over his chest, just below his heart. With the bridge of his nose pulsing and a soreness in his eyes, he turns around and offers her a meek smile. “No, I haven’t.”

Harry disappears into his office for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, trying to ignore how biting the house and everything in it feels without Zayn’s warm touch.

  

•  • XXI • •

 

It’s been two weeks since he last saw Harry.

Of course he isn’t counting the days. Zayn just knows it’s been fourteen days since Harry kicked him out of the house and shattered the night they shared into pieces.  

He’s not counting, he’s just good at keeping time, especially when minutes go by like hours and days pass by like years.

A part of him, hopeful and naïve and _stupid_ , expected Harry to come running after him. To tell him he’s sorry, to embrace him in his arms and stop the thoughts, the hurt, he left behind.

But he never did. Zayn sat waiting for him, and Harry never came. A part of Zayn yearns to see him and another, still ridden with anger and spite, repels the idea altogether. How could he want to see the man who disregarded him like he was a piece of trash? How could he?

It’s been two awful, dreaded weeks back into the same monotony he was in before Harry strolled into the picture and scrambled everything around. Now the water is settling again. But Zayn knows it’s only a certain amount of time before the ripples return.

The telephone rings. Zayn thinks he knows who it is, because they’ve rang thrice before. But he ignores it. The ringing stops—for a moment, brief silence in the early morning boozer—but it picks back up where it left off.

“Zayn,” his father shouts from the back. “Who is it that keeps ringing?"

“Just some business men, father,” he calls back. “Want to try and get you to buy some of their loot.”

He hears his father grumble. “You know where to tell them to stick it.”

“Yes, father.”

An hour passes before the phone rings again. Noticing that it begins to rile up his father, Zayn decides to pick up the telephone. He takes a deep breath before answering with a formal, “Yes?”

“Zayn,” Harry’s smooth tone speaks down the line.

Zayn’s heart steals a beat in his chest and begins again twice as fast. Anger heats up in his bloodstream.

“Zayn, are you there?”

“Look, we don’t want no phony deals or second-hand trades or nothing, alright? So keep your business to yourself, we’re not interested,” Zayn says, and he removes the phone from his ear.

He hears Harry call his name again through the line before Zayn puts the telephone back down on the holder and ends the call.

He takes a deep breath. Deciding he shouldn’t tempt fate by standing next to the phone, he moves away and pours himself a drink of straight gin behind the bar. He downs it in two gulps and pours another. 

Zayn grumbles to himself. _Why is this man so complicated?_ He makes Zayn feel like every choice he makes is wrong. Choosing his own happiness over his father, allowing himself something _good_ for once in his life, giving himself to Harry… Why do they all have such vital consequence?

Now he has no Harry, and his father despises him more than he did, and his happiness has elevated above him and escaped from his grasp. And he’s back to where he started; level zero, nothing but scraps, in the dumps of where life placed him.

 _Why are you so cruel?_ Zayn asks, looking past the ceiling and up to the sky.  

It’s that time of night, where the bar simmers down into low sways and drunken mumbles and Zayn hears it: a harsh clang from the back. It goes unnoticed by every drunk in the bar, but his sober mind hears it like a bomb.  

He’s about to blame his father for the racket, but he hears it again—the only sounds his father ever makes are distant, profane mutters or thuds as he falls from the sofa onto the floor in half-drunken, half-sleep idiocy, and this sounds nothing like either of those.

Zayn checks the time. No, his father is never awake at 2am.

Wearily, he walks out of the bar and into the back, his fists balled in defence. Although the hallway is dark and he can hardly see, everything seems in order. Then, he hears the sound again, and he jumps in alarm. The back exit door slams back into place and seconds later Harry appears in the doorway of the back room.

Zayn lowers his fists back down to his side.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” he asks in a low hiss. “How did you open the back door?”

“I wanted to see you. I _needed_ to see you.”

“So you broke in?” he asks, incredulous. “Do you do that often?”

“You wouldn’t speak to me on the phone, what else was I supposed to do?” he argues.

Zayn shushes him and glances back at his father’s room. He shuffles inside and falls quiet again. “Lower your voice.”

“Is he in there?” Harry asks.

“Yes, he’s asleep.”

Zayn takes a moment to examine Harry. He’s dressed in his usual attire, but it seems so awfully misplaced. His shirt hangs half out, as if he rushed to tuck it in, top two buttons undone and the others mismatched; suspenders hang low by his thighs; his blazer is crumpled and messy and looks as if it’s been tossed to the side and left, unlike its normal clean-cut appearance; shoes unlaced; and, as Zayn squints closer, he notices the faint smear of stubble residing on Harry’s usually clean-shaven face.

He looks so undone and scruffy and completely out of his character.

“Why are you here?” Zayn asks.

"I need to speak with you. I need to explain,” he says.

“You’ve explained enough, don’t you think? And you didn’t even need to talk in order to do it. A true writer, you are,” Zayn jabs.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Please? Five minutes, if you’re not busy.”

“I am, actually.”

“Then five minutes, anyway. Please, Zayn,” he begs.

Zayn doesn’t know why he does it—then again, he doesn’t know why he does most of the things he does around Harry—but he takes Harry’s hand and leads him into the room furthest to the back, at the far end of the hallway; his bedroom.

Perhaps it’s because he hears the desperation in Harry’s tone, and he can’t deny the flicker of curiosity inside himself at what he has to say. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t, he _can’t_ , say no to Harry, something he should really work on.

Zayn shuts the door behind them and turns to face Harry. He’s much closer than Zayn expected, almost cornering him against the door and the wall. Zayn prods him back and releases their hands, which leaves Harry with a frown.

And then, out of nowhere, Zayn punches him.

Harry stumbles back and regains his balance, holding onto the side of his face with a grimace. Zayn’s palm stings at his side, quaking fingers, and a hint of adrenaline that releases into his blood. It only takes Harry a minute to recover, but he remains amusingly weary of Zayn.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Harry mutters.

“Yes. You did.”

“Is this your bedroom?” Harry assesses the room.

Stingy, chipped walls; stained floors; a ripped mattress; and a small, broken bedside table. Yes, he knows it’s not much. He can only imagine the thoughts racing through Harry’s head.

“Just tell me what you need to say, so you can leave,” Zayn says, short.

He doesn’t want this to drag out longer than it should. Otherwise, he’s just going to get hurt again. He knows it.

A silence falls between them. Only the thump of the music from down the hall reverberates through these thin walls.

“I want to apologise,” Harry begins, his tone soft like butter. “I want to apologise for kicking you out of my home, so suddenly and undeservingly. I know I treated you wrong.”

“Have you only just come to that conclusion? Just now?”

“No, of course not. I regretted it the moment you left,” he confesses and swallows, nervously. “But I… I couldn’t call you back.”

“Why not?” Zayn tries.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t Zayn, I…” A stressed hand falls into his hair. “Helena was there. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not treat me like everyone else. That’s what you were supposed to do.”

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry, Zayn. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I needed time to think.”

“About what? What couldn’t you possibly have thought about while I was there?” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m trying to wrap my mind around what this is.” Harry motions between them. “I don’t know what this is, I’ve never known.”

“Right now, it’s nothing. You made sure of that,” Zayn says.

“Zayn.” Harry groans. “Please, don’t make this difficult.”

“I’m not the one who made it difficult,” Zayn says in a more impatient tone. His jaw vice-like, shoulders tensing. “Did you think you were going to walk in here and everything would be the way it was?" 

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re acting as though a quick apology would reconcile what you’ve done.”

“Zayn, no. No, that’s not what I thought at all. I’ll admit, I was expecting you to be more open, but…” he sits down on the edge of Zayn’s squeaking bed. His eyes are glossy and aware as they stare up at Zayn. “The past two weeks… I feel like I haven’t had time to think. Work has been demanding with an influx of news and updates, and Helena—she’s been ruthless. She argues with me every night. And the worst part about it is that you weren’t there at the end of the day.”

Zayn senses the crack in his harsh exterior before it makes a sound. He shakes his head and sits down on the bed beside Harry.

“I am truly trying to understand this, Zayn. What we have, what I… _feel_ for you,” Harry says. Zayn’s heart grows quicker. “I’m in a predicament. A messy predicament, and I know I’ve already hurt you, and I know I’ll hurt you again because that’s who the world has made me, but… I can’t stay away from you. I can’t, Zayn. In such a short amount of time I’ve come to rely on you for my happiness and peace of mind, more than anyone ever should.”

Harry brushes at Zayn’s fingers: a permission to slip their hands together. Zayn lets their fingers intertwine, and Harry immediately brings Zayn’s palm up to his mouth to kiss it.

“I shouldn’t be here. But I had to see you. I feel like I’ve been going crazy not seeing your face. Not talking to you. You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Can you blame me?” Zayn asks with tilted lips. “You’ve hurt me.”

“I know, I know.” Harry plays with Zayn’s fingers, circling his thumb over the soft skin of his hand. “You know how you get these thoughts in your head and they’re so intrusive that you can’t ignore them? They’re just… there, whether you want them to be or not.”

“Yes, I do.” _I understand that too well._

“I have this idea in my head.” He pauses for a moment and scoffs to himself. “Now you’re going to think _I’m_ ridiculous.”

“I won’t,” Zayn speaks in a soft, reassuring voice. “Tell me.”

“I keep having this…” He groans in frustration. “I’m a married man, Zayn. And when you have… _feelings_ for someone else, sometimes that can be confusing. And I’ve been confused for a long time. People have gotten into my head, mostly Helena and my workers. And the world makes it seem like what we have is wrong, but it feels right. I don’t care about what people think, not normally, which is what makes this so odd to me.

“It’s you, I think. You add this sensitivity to me that I lost after the war. I didn’t care for anyone, not truly, not since you. It’s like you’re the pieces of me I lost. It’s like you make me complete again,” he confesses.

Zayn’s heart does that inexplicable somersault in his chest. _He makes Harry complete?_ Curse this man for pulling at his heart strings so mercilessly, so often—Zayn thinks they must be branded with Harry’s name by now.

“After the war I didn’t care much for sin, and I didn’t ask for forgiveness either. And then you stormed into the picture with this _goodness_ that I haven’t seen in anyone since my mother, and you centred my moral compass, and the way I lived before you, the way I’m living now, it seems so wrong. An unhappy marriage battling with an affair, a job that _sucks my fucking soul_ from me sometimes. It’s a life of sin, Zayn. I don’t want sin, not anymore. But you evoke such sin in me. Do you see the predicament?” Harry laughs, though his face is void of any humour. His head falls into his hand.

“Harry,” Zayn says in a sigh, “we aren’t sinful. Not in the way you believe. In sin of infidelity, in sin of the American law, yes. But in being with one another? No, Harry. Of course we aren’t.”

“I want to know that you’re sure of that. Zayn, I don’t want to go to hell. I’ve already been there once, I’m not going back.”

Zayn grazes his finger over Harry’s cheek that flushes with emotion, and Harry falls into the touch. “Harry, you silly man. We aren’t going to Hell. I promise you that. And if we do, at least we’ll be there together.”

Harry laughs. “That is true.”

“Is that really why you’ve been ignoring me?”

Harry looks to him guiltily. “Yes and no.”

“Yes _and_ no?”

“Life is complicated. Sometimes we make decision we regret and do things that are wrong, even if they seem right at the time. We’ll leave it at,” he says.

“Well, I’m dissatisfied with that answer, but we’ll leave it be for now,” Zayn levels. “And you didn’t have to sound so… ominous.”

Harry snickers. “It’s in these moments I know you’ve forgotten I’m a journalist.”

“I don’t forget, I just focus more on all the other aspects of you.”

Harry smiles at him, and it does Zayn’s heart no favours. In fact, the longer Harry stares at him in this way, with such affection and measure and trepidation all in one, the tighter his chest becomes.

Zayn knew Harry was a broken man, despite how well he hides it. But now he sees that scared, little boy that was shoved into the throes of life too early; the boy whose eyes brim with vulnerability, who clings onto Zayn as though he’ll fall if he lets go. Zayn doesn’t want to let go—he sees too much of himself in Harry to do that.

Harry always seems so sure and definite of what he wants and what he believes. Now, it’s like Zayn is witnessing a phantom of the tenacious character he knew. Zayn can’t stay mad at him, can he? No, he can’t.

“I forgive you,” Zayn says.

“You do?”  

“As long as you trust me, Harry. Trust me when I say, you aren’t going to Hell, and neither am I.”  

“Truth be told, I’m more worried about you.”

“About me?”

Harry hums. “You deserve much more than Hell.”

“I don’t think I much believe in that kind of thing, anyway.”

“Why not?” 

“I suppose I’m cynical in that way.” He ponders the thought for a moment and exhales. “I’m not sure, I don’t have a definite answer for you. So, you don’t have to worry about me or my soul.” 

“I thought everyone believed. America is a very loyal country. When it believes in something, it truly _believes_.”

“Yes, I get that impression, very much,” Zayn mumbles.

When Zayn zones out into a dark corner of the room, Harry calls his name.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, taking Zayn’s other hand in his.

“I’ve missed you,” Zayn admits. “I shouldn’t have, but I have. God, you hurt me, Harry. To just throw me out like that…”

It’s painful to admit to himself, but he has. All of his anger has been fed by the begrudging notion that, despite how Harry treated him, Zayn still misses him, still wants him. Because Harry has taken his fingers and wrapped them around Zayn’s heart and he’s refusing to let go. And all Zayn can do is listen to the erratic beat in his chest, in his ears, in the ends of his fingertips, whenever Harry decides to press down and squeeze and watch all the ardour and pathos spill from him like blood.

He is still Harry’s. And a part of him thinks he always will be.

“Oh, darling. You don’t understand how regretful I am, you don’t,” Harry soothes, and embraces Zayn into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Zayn.”

“What has changed?” Zayn asks, as he pulls away from the hug to look him in the eyes. “What has changed? You’re still with Helena, you have to be. She’s your wife.”

 _A cheating bitch of a wife_ , Zayn is desperate to add, but he can’t. He knows he is no better than Helena. Sleeping with a married man, how could he be? The length of his transgression opposed to hers is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. He is just as sinful, just as wrong. And he will always be second best.

“I am almost officially done with her at this point,” Harry says. “She can’t speak to me without insulting you. Or me, for that matter. And she’s incessant on causing a problem where this is none. I can’t do anything right.”

Zayn would say they couldn’t blame her—God knows how Zayn would act if Harry was his husband and he was having an affair—but she’s sleeping with James, and so be blames her to the top end of New York and back.

“What do you mean, you’re done with her?” Zayn asks, brows knitted into one.

Harry falters for a moment, before speaking. “Zayn you must understand that I may not like her anymore, not as a person, but a part of me will always care for her. She was the first person I met after the war I could truly trust. She helped me in ways no one else did.”

“I know that.” Zayn looks away. Of course he knew that. Harry doesn’t have to spell it out for him. “I know you still care for her.”

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for you. I do, I care about you a lot, in a way different than I ever cared for Helena or for anyone else.” He strokes Zayn’s cheek with a smile. “You have replaced every fraction of me that was ever filled with anyone else. And it baffles me because I don’t ever remember letting you in. You just found your way. And it feels so natural. So right, even though it’s wrong.”

Zayn emits a soft gasp, and some riveting depth within his chest swoons.

“You feel that way?” Zayn asks.  

“Yes, I do.” Harry’s lips become shy beneath his teeth and Zayn notices the twinge of pink in his cheeks, like they’ve been pinched. “That’s what I’ve been having trouble with, I’m afraid. Trying to understand it all.”

“Harry…” Zayn whispers.

“It’s not love,” Harry assures quickly. “It’s not… it’s not love. Looking back now, I don’t think I’ve loved anyone since before the war. Not even Helena, not truly.”

Zayn’s heart drops, but it doesn’t reach the floor—Harry keeps it lifted. “Okay.”

“But that doesn’t mean I want anything between us to be belittled. No, I want it to shine,” Harry tells him. He takes both of Zayn’s cheeks in his palms. “It’s only you, okay? It has been for a while, it just took me a little time to realise it. And I want it to be only you.”

Zayn scrambles, overwhelmed, for what to say. “Harry, I—How is—It won’t work. It can’t work.”

“Why won’t it?”

“How _can_ it?” Zayn says, voice raised. He composes himself in a second. “Helena is still there. She’s not just going to roll over like a dog and let you do what you please.”

“I told you, Zayn, what I say goes. She may moan about it, but it’s my word at the end of the day. It’s my house.”

“But she’ll make it difficult in every possible way she can.” Zayn laughs frustratedly into a sigh and shakes his head. His hands come over Harry’s and places them in their laps.

“Zayn, I really want this to work. You make me so happy, so happy that the days I’m not with you just feel dull and bleak. I don’t want my life to be dull and bleak anymore, it has been for so long.”

“I don’t know,” he quietly says.

Harry pulls a hand through Zayn’s hair. “Your hair is always so clean and smooth. Though, I think you’re in need of a cut.”

“You’re changing the topic in the most unsubtle way,” Zayn points out.

“I am, aren’t I? I’m running again.” He suspires, looking so hesitant and yet so sure. “I want you, in any way that I can. Even if that means balancing life with you and my wife.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Zayn says. He squeezes Harry’s hands tighter. “It hurts to see you with her, even if you’re on opposite sides of the room. Even if you don’t touch one another or speak to one another, it’s still as upsetting as if you were. Knowing that she is your wife…”

“I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but I don’t want to lose you completely. What can I do? What would you have me do?” Harry asks, kissing Zayn’s hand. “I want you to be happy. I want to make this work. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Zayn scoffs. “Do you want my honesty?”

“Yes. Always.”

“Divorce her.”

Harry’s eyes open wide and he moves back to take in the full entirety of Zayn’s face, who’s countenance is flat and serious, despite the trembling confidence he hides.

“You want me to do what?” 

“I think you heard,” Zayn whispers back.

“Zayn,” Harry begins, taken aback, “I can’t divorce her.”

“Why not? You’re unhappy with her, you’re not in coitus with her.” _She’s fucking the man who hates you._ “She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“No. No, thank God. I wouldn’t know what to do if she was.”

“Why wouldn’t the court agree?”

“Zayn, I’m having an affair,” Harry says, deadpan. “With you. Infidelity is punishable. If the court found out I’m in danger of losing everything.”

 _She’s having an affair, too!_ Zayn wants to shout at him, to slap his face and make him see. But he doesn’t. He holds back.

Despite how much Zayn wants to tell Harry the truth—to the point where it practically seeps from his pores whenever Helena is mentioned—he can’t. Like Harry said, he still cares for her—to Zayn’s dismay. He knows it will hurt Harry if he finds out.

And James—that _bastard_. Zayn has no idea what the man will do when he discovers Zayn has told Harry about them. And Harry… he doesn’t even want to think about what Harry would do to him. _Probably give him what he deserves,_ Zayn thinks.

He shakes his head to disregard the idea. No, he won’t tell him. Not now. This is _their_ moment. He’s not going to allow _her_ to ruin their moment. He doesn’t want Harry to abandon Zayn again to run back to _her._

Zayn will tell him. One day, one day that isn’t today. And in the meantime, he’ll hope the truth reveals itself, and he doesn’t get caught in the crossroads of the chaos it will create.

Zayn huffs. “Then, I don’t know. Everything will be all that more difficult with her around. I’m afraid she’ll ruin it.”

“She will only ruin it if we let her, and I won’t. I won’t allow her to do that,” Harry replies. “I’m not willing to lose what we have, Zayn. I don’t want it to end. I know you don’t. Isn’t that enough to try and make this work?”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy.”

“There usually isn’t three people in a relationship. I expected as much.”

“A relationship, huh?” Harry asks with a smirk. “I like that. Though, I’ll admit, I didn’t think men could be in relationships with one another.”

“In the eyes of society, they can’t. But it can be our secret.” Zayn winks.

Harry moves closer, so their thighs are flush with one another and Harry’s fingers linger along Zayn’s neck. “I love secrets, didn’t you know?”

 _Oh, Harry_. Only he could switch the tables like this in a moment.

Tired of this useless seriousness and giving in, Zayn takes his hand across the nape of Harry’s neck and pulls his face in so their noses brush. “How many of those do you have?”

“Too many,” he admits. “But you are by far my favourite and most arousing.”

“Arousing, huh?” Zayn goads, as Harry wraps around Zayn’s waist.

“Yes. You see this,” Harry whispers, bringing Zayn’s hand down into his crotch; Zayn’s breath hitches at the bulge in his trousers, “This has been a perpetual ache since you’ve been gone. No one’s been around to take care of me.”

Zayn chokes back a snicker, but the want in Harry’s countenance sobers him. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m here now.”

“How did we get to this? What a turnaround,” Harry jokes.

“It’s your fault. You’re always horny.”  

“You love it this way, I know you do.”

“Oh? You’re right, I just adore being dropped and picked up whenever you please.” Zayn rolls his eyes, but his smile remains light.

Harry groans. “Are you going to keep making comments like this, or are you going to let me kiss you?”

“You’re asking if you can kiss me—how chivalrous.” Zayn chuckles. “When have you ever asked for permission before?”

“I’m turning a new leaf. I want to be a better man. I’m trying.”

Zayn frowns and kisses the tip of Harry’s nose. “You’re already a good man, Harry. You’re such a good man. You make stupid decision sometimes, but you still have a good heart.”

“I don’t agree with you,” he replies softly. He shifts his eyes down for a moment and back up to Zayn. “I’m not half the man you think I am.”

“I doubt that’s true. No, I don’t believe that is true.”

“Then you’re a fool, Zayn Malik,” he says with a caring smile. “But you’re my fool.”

“That’s okay, then.”

“I’ll take this as permission to kiss you, accepted?”

“Yes, I suppose you can. Just this once.”

And for the first time in two weeks, of what feels like decades of cold and darkness, Harry kisses the smile on Zayn’s lips and consumes him.

Zayn can’t object how nice it is to feel Harry in this way again. Like the sun has begun to shine on his dull days, and the flowers inside his chest flourish with a longing for Harry he forgot existed. He shouldn’t allow it to manifest, in these little pecks and all-consuming touches, but he does. Zayn can’t resist this man. Can anyone?

He moans into Harry’s mouth. God, he’s missed this so much. The oneness and gentle sin of Harry’s touch. Being in his arms right now makes Zayn realises how parched he’s been since he left him, how starving he’s been and now he’s full: of longing and wonder and affection that’s been pent up inside of him until now.

“Baby,” Harry breathes in a gasp between their kisses.

Harry pulls Zayn into his lap and presses him down. Once Zayn’s lips are swollen and rhubarb, Harry moves his mouth down to his neck, where he traces the lines of Zayn’s fading bruises and deepens their colour. All Zayn can do is whine his name in short pants and rock against the friction of their bodies.

How did they escalate so quickly? Only they could be fighting one minute and discussing arousal over heated breaths and tongue-filled kisses the next. Only they could be so versatile; Zayn thinks that’s what he loves about Harry.

In an instant, Zayn turns to stone in Harry’s lap. His breathing pauses, and his eyes swell in size, and his head jolts up like he’s been shocked.

 _Loves_.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Harry asks in a heavy breath. 

But Zayn doesn’t have time to answer, because he hears the creaking of his door behind him, and the gasp that follows, and the bellowing rage of his father as he storms into the room and yanks Zayn from Harry’s grip.

Zayn’s back hits the dusty floor with a thud. By the time he stands back to his feet, disoriented and hazy, his father has already pushed Harry into the wall and has him in a choke-hold.

He doesn’t register what he’s doing when he proceeds towards his father and grapples at his hands to loosen the hold he has on Harry. Clane brings Harry forward and shoves him back into the wall; Harry’s head cracks as it hits the wooden panel and he slumps to the floor, half-conscious.

“No!” Zayn cries, breathless and panicked, as he rushes to reach for Harry.

But his father grabs him back by the scrap of his shirt collar and heaves him to the floor. Clane’s fist comes down on his jaw before he has chance to turn his head away, before he has chance to shake the daze that the affliction to his head causes.

It’s hit after hit; to his face and his chest and his ribs. Zayn raises his arms up in defence, but it’s no use. He’s too weak against his father’s unyielding hands, too weak against the weight of his father’s body on top of him. 

He hears his nose crack, and his jaw bust, and his mouth fills with the taste of blood. He doesn’t even give Zayn time to groan from the pain.

“You disgusting piece of filth!” his father roars down to him, a punch between each word, spit coming to mix with the blood on Zayn’s face. “I give you a roof, a home, and you throw it in my face by being… _unnatural_ with this no good _fuck_.”

“Harry,” Zayn croaks.

Clane grabs Zayn’s aching jaw, and he yelps. “ _I am talking to you._ How dare you treat me this way. I’ve given you _everything_ I have, _everything_ I own. Do you think you can walk all over me? Do you think I’m a fool? Your mother would be _disgusted_ in you.”

As the impact of his father’s fist slams his head to the side, Zayn sees Harry standing to his feet, still disoriented from the hit to his head, stumbling around and falling before standing back up. He shakes it off and rushes to Clane’s back to pull him off Zayn.

But it’s no use; Clane is too strong, much stronger than Harry, and Harry can’t stop him as he pushes blow after blow to Zayn’s body.

 _No!_ Zayn wants to scream, when Harry rushes out of the room, but his mouth betrays him. His face is too numb from the pain and his father’s hits are blurring his vision.

“If you think that you’re my son after how abominably you’ve behaved, you can think again. I wish I could take back the goddamn day you were born,” he sneers into Zayn, as he feels a hazy layer settle over his sweaty and pulverised skin. “You are nothing. _Nothing.”_

Why does he deserve this? _Why does he deserve this?_

Before Zayn’s eyes close, shrouded with darkness and tears, he hears the smash of a bottle and the glass falling to the ground around him. The straddle of his father’s weight over his body alleviates and he’s pulled from the floor.

When Zayn wakes up, he feels the rush of cool air on his busted face and the cogs of a motor between them. He mumbles out this incoherent sound, spluttering out blood. A cold hand comes down onto his.

“Zayn, it’s me,” Harry’s voice wavers over to him. “It’s me, baby. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be alright.”

Harry’s words echo in his head as he falls unconscious again. He doesn’t know how long he’s out, but when he wakes up Harry is carrying him in his arms up the steps of his porch and rushing into the house.

Harry is shouting, and it seems so loud in his ears. _Why is he shouting?_

He glimpses the shocked face of Helena standing in the hallway. Harry moves into the living room, where he gently places Zayn down onto the sofa nearest the fire. Zayn whimpers at the pain that jolts through his every bone.

“It’s okay, Zayn. You’re okay, you’re safe,” Harry says, though his voice is panicked, and sounds as though he’s trying to reassure himself.

“Harry,” he whispers through cut and swollen lips.

Harry kisses Zayn’s hand. Zayn feels his laboured breaths rush over his burning skin.  

“Helena, I need some water, a rag, and the medical kit,” Harry orders to her. When Helena stands frozen, staring down at Zayn’s broken body, Harry slaps her. “Goddamnit woman, listen to me. Water, a rag, and the medical kit, now.”

She rushes off and returns a minute later with a bowl of water, a damp rag, and a white box; all the while Harry pushes Zayn’s hair back from his face and protects his neck with an extra cushion.

Harry grabs a glass tumbler from a shelf on the other side of the room. He pops the cap off and leans it towards Zayn’s mouth. “Here. It’ll help with the pain.”

The liquid pours between his lips and he splutters on it before swallowing. Zayn’s head feels so jumbled and confused and in pain that his conscious doesn’t seem to be working properly.

Harry showers his hands in a clear liquid—absinthe—before he grabs the rag and starts to dust over Zayn’s face in gentle motion, to wipe away the blood. Despite Zayn’s disorientation, the alarm in Harry’s face is still clear to him. His hands slightly shake as he sweeps across Zayn’s face.

“Harry,” Zayn whispers, although it hurts his lips to speak.

“Shh, Zayn,” Harry soothes. “You need to rest.”

In the corner of his swollen eye, Zayn sees Helena standing in the doorway of the living room, looking so torn and… concerned? He knows he shouldn’t speak, he knows he shouldn’t say it, especially with Helena present and the situation so dire and incomparable to what he has to say, but there’s words on his tongue that leave a sticky and unwelcome residue that mix with his blood as they’re left unsaid.

He has to tell him. For all Zayn knows, he could die. He has to tell Harry. He has to. And in this moment, in his state of delirium, it seems to be the only thing he can think about, as his mind gyrates over the thought like a loop.

“Harry,” he insists, despite Harry’s caution.

“Zayn, please stay quiet, darling.”

Painfully, he raises his bruised and heavy arm up to stop Harry’s work on his face. “Harry, I—”

“Zayn, please.”

“Harry,” Zayn says more urgently, his voice trickling back in one, quick strain of sound. “Harry, I love you.”

The hand innZayn’s face falls away, and the focus on Harry’s face collapses into one of jarring shock. “What?”

Zayn doesn’t have the strength to say it again. He tries, in a half-coherent mumble, but it’s no use.

He loves Harry. _He loves Harry._ Yes, he thinks he has since the moment Harry asked him to crawl into that hotel bed and hold him. He’s loved Harry all the way back then, and he loves him now—more ardently and whimsically and desperately than he ever has before.

Though she’s silent, Zayn hears Helena’s screaming dismay from the other side of the room. She takes a step away and flees, like she always does, and leaves Zayn alone with Harry.

“Zayn,” Harry’s voice is a disbelieving whisper. “You’re confused, Zayn. You don’t mean that.”

 _No, no, I do. Please hear me, Harry._ “Yes,” Zayn whimpers out in a quiet gasp.

“No, Zayn.” Harry sighs, and takes Zayn’s hand in reassurance. “Please be quiet. You’re in a bad state, I’m trying to fix you up.”

Zayn speaks Harry’s name in incessant whispers, but Harry only shushes him and presses a sweet kiss to his forehead. He continues to wipe Zayn’s face of blood and clean his skin. A white bandage wraps around Zayn’s face, across the bridge of his nose, to cover his lacerated cheek.

 _He’s rejecting me_ , Zayn thinks, his whole chest collapsing. He feels like he can’t breathe, like a stone has settled over his heart and crushes it away. _He doesn’t love me_.

Zayn whimpers and his cheeks stain red with tears.

“Oh, darling, no,” Harry coos. He takes Zayn into his arms as much as he can without hurting him, and strokes his hair in comfort. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, love.”

Zayn clutches onto Harry’s shirt and sobs. God, he hurts so much, everywhere, and although he yearns to be in Harry’s arms the touch seems to pain him more. But he can’t let go. His eyes are swollen and puffy and bruised, and he’s blind. He’s so blind.

“Come, lie down.” Harry rests him back down onto the sofa in a comfortable position.

“Don’t… don’t leave,” Zayn weakly says.

Harry takes Zayn’s hand in his in a tight, assuring hold. “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, I’m not leaving you again.”

“Harry…”

“I’ll be right here,” he promises.

Harry kisses his hand, and Zayn falls asleep.

When he wakes up from his slumber, Harry is still beside him. He’s knelt down beside the sofa, his hand still in Zayn’s, his head rested on the edge beside him, and he’s snoring.

He doesn’t stay awake for long, only having time to run his hand through Harry’s hair and watch him stir, before he reattaches their hands and drifts off again.

Zayn’s sore eyes peel open as the dawn seeps into the sky. Though the curtains are shut and the room is dark, Zayn knows it’s morning. He knows because Harry is no longer beside him and he feels cold without his presence.

There’s faint banging coming from the kitchen. Zayn raises his head, but it falls back onto the pillow, thudding. He groans as every ache in his body becomes present.

His chest hurts; inside and out. And, God, his face feels so sore, his eyes puffy and partially blurred. His lips split as he widens them, his mouth as dry as a bone. He winces as he moves, as the memories filter back into his mind.

His father, on top of him, punch and blow after punch and blow. Harry pulling him off— _Harry_. Oh, Harry, his poor head.

As if psychic, Harry walks into the room. He’s limping, and his hair is flat against his head, un-styled. He sees Zayn and smiles. Placing the tray down on the table beside him, he kneels so he’s eye level with Zayn.

“Good morning.”

Zayn mumbles something similar in response.

“How are you feeling?”

“I hurt,” he answers in a cracked voice.

“That’s to be expected. You took some nasty blows.” Harry pushes his hands through Zayn’s long hair. “Your hair needs to be washed. And cut, I think. It’s a little greasy.”

“Greasy?” he croaks with a frown. _I only washed it yesterday._

“Yes, greasy. I see little specks of blood, too. You’ve been out for a few days. Six, actually.”

“What?” Zayn says, wincing when the shock in his voice strains his neck too much.

He’s been out for six days? Zayn doesn’t even remember waking up at any point, not even for a moment.

“Be careful, darling,” Harry soothes. He strokes Zayn’s hair. “It’s nothing to worry about. Your body is just healing. You woke up here and there, grumbling. Re-dressing your wounds was difficult, but I managed.”

“Thank you,” Zayn whispers.

Harry kisses his forehead. “You don’t have to thank me. I brought you some cookies. They’re medicinal.”

“Did you make them?”

“Yes, I did,” he says, proudly. “Do you want one? It will help with the pain, make you feel better.”

Zayn smiles, though it hurts. “Yes.”

Harry helps him sit up so he can eat, placing an extra pillow behind his back. Zayn grimaces and groans the whole time, denying Harry when he offers to help him lie back down. Harry picks up a cookie and feeds Zayn.

He can’t taste much, his mouth so numb and dry, but he knows he likes it. Harry made it—it’s a given.

“You like it?” Harry asks; Zayn nods. “Good. It’s got marijuana in it.”

Zayn almost spits the cookie out. “What?”

“Don’t worry, it’s for a medicinal purpose, I told you,” he reassures. “I’ve been burning it in the room for the last few days to help you, but Helena has complained about the smell drifting into the rest of the house. So I had to find another way to give it to you. Have you never tried it before?”

“Once,” Zayn says, as he hesitantly keeps on chewing. “I was younger.”

“It won’t do anything bad, I promise. It’s an Indica variety. It’ll help relax your muscles and ease the pain. You’ll feel a tingle in your fingers and you may get a little hazy. You’ll feel better,” Harry explains. “I didn’t add much in.”

Zayn finishes the cookie and, realising how hungry he is, has two more before Harry tells him not to go overboard. He brings a cup to Zayn’s lips and helps him drink.

“I feel like a baby,” Zayn mutters.

“You’re my baby, and I want to take care of you.” Harry places a careful kiss to his forehead. “I’ve run you a bath.”

“I can’t walk, Harry.” His legs hurt too much.

“That’s okay, I’ll carry you,” he says.

“Okay.”

Zayn sighs and braces himself for the pain as Harry’s arms wind around his body. He tries not to focus on how every step of Harry’s sends a jolt of discomfort through his chest, his hips, his legs, his face. It seems like it takes Harry forever to reach the top of the stairs. Zayn pushes the bathroom door open with his foot.

He leans Zayn against the side of the sink, Harry’s hands staying around his waist securely.

“Do you want me to undress you?” Harry asks.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to do it myself,” Zayn wheezes out a joke. “And it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked.”

“You’re right on both accounts.”

Harry unbuckles Zayn’s trousers and briefs and helps him step out of them, raising his hands to unbutton his shirt that still has his dried blood on it. He stands naked in front of Harry, feeling so exposed and bruised and vulnerable.

Harry looks down his body with sorrowful eyes. Sighing, he leans down to place gentle kisses to his bruised ribs. Zayn flinches—not because it hurts but because Harry’s touch feels so comforting from the treatment his body has endured. He expected more pain, not pleasure.

“My darling,” Harry whispers. Upset seeps into the creases in his eyes, as he raises back to normal height. “I wish I could taken this pain from you. I would in a heartbeat, I’d take all of it.”

“Harry.” Zayn sighs and falls into his arms.

Harry takes him in willingly, and rubs comforting circles on his back. All the while Zayn begins to weep, and it hurts his head and his eyes but he can’t stop the tears as they fall.

He loves this man. He loves Harry, more than he’s loved anyone—the realisation is like an electrocution in his bloodstream that makes him sob harder. He loves Harry. Zayn wants to tell him, to say it out loud into the world, but he knows he won’t hear it in return.

Harry leans back to wipe the tears from Zayn’s face, pity in his eyes. He presses a cautious kiss to Zayn’s lips; Zayn tries to deepen it, despite the sting in his jaw, but Harry denies him and pulls away. And he feels so lost and cold and exposed.

“Come, lets get you in the bath,” Harry says.

Insisting that he walk, Zayn limps his way over to the bath that sits in the archway of the far wall. He steps in one foot at a time and slowly sinks into the hot water.

“Is that okay? Is it too warm? I can run some cold water,” Harry offers.

“No, it feels good.”

It does. The warm water feels amazing on his tired muscles and aching bones. _This puts all those cold baths to the dirt_ , Zayn thinks.

“I’ve never had a hot bath before,” Zayn says. His eyes are droopy, the steam from the bath surrounding his eyes in lassitude. “Just cold baths. I used to bathe in lakes when I was younger, but it just turned into a sink and a sponge as I grew up.”

Harry, who’s sat beside the bath on his knees, dips his fingers into the water. “Another first?”

“Yes.” He smiles. “Be honest with me, Harry. How bad do I look?”

“Awful,” he states, shaking his head. “You look awful.”

“I feel awful, too.”

“I’ll get you back to normal,” Harry promises and strokes Zayn’s shoulder. A hesitation passes over his face.

Zayn notices. “What’s wrong?”

“If I propose an idea, will you think about it?”

Zayn’s brows lower in suspicion. “It depends on what the proposition is.”

Harry pauses for a moment, holding his breath and exhaling. “I want you to think about living here. With me. I know I’ve said it before, half-serious, but I am truly, truly sincere this time, Zayn. I want you to consider it genuine.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you going back there. I don’t want you staying with _him_. He’s an animal.” Harry doesn’t bother hiding the disgust in his voice.

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m not welcome there anymore.”

“You’re proving my point.”

“Harry, I can’t live here,” Zayn protests weakly. “I’m already intruding.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding if this was your home,” Harry levels with him.

And Zayn can’t object to that because Harry is right. He sighs; he hasn’t got the energy to do this, not now.

“Can I think about this? I’m so tired.”

“Of course you can. But, you will be staying here until you’re back to good health, until your bones have healed. I want no objection of that.”

“Fine,” Zayn submits.

“Good.”

“I know you dislike him, Harry, but he’s still my father,” Zayn says quietly. “I know you will protest—”

“Yes, you’re right, I will.”

“But I…” Zayn trails off. He swallows the lump that forms in his throat like a stone and blinks back the blurriness in his eyes. “He’s just a lost soul.”

“Why are you defending him? Look at what he’s done to you,” Harry says in mussitation, brows gathered and face pinched. “I’ll kill him.”

“No you won’t, Harry. You’re not capable of murder.”

“Are you sure of that? I was in the war, Zayn. I killed hundreds of innocent people,” he argues, hard eyed and stubborn, and takes Zayn aback. “What would be one more? One more who truly deserved it.”

“You won’t because I won’t let you. I wouldn’t forgive you if you did,” Zayn says, though he’s not sure of the sincerity of his words. Nevertheless, he goes on. “I wouldn’t. He’s my father, Harry.”

“Who beat you and bruised you, your whole life!”

“But I still love him,” Zayn’s voice cracks. The cut on his cheek stings as a tear falls over it. Harry’s stony eyes turn to sand; soft and yet still so grated. “He’s the only father I’ve ever had, and the only father I will ever have. And no matter what he’s done to me, I will still love him. I don’t forgive him, no. But that doesn’t stop me from being his son.”

“He seems to be under the impression that you _aren’t_ his son anymore.” Harry’s jaw is grit tight, lip bitten and reddened.

“That’s okay.” Zayn shifts his sore shoulders into a shrug. “I’m not going to wish the same pain on him that he has inflicted on me. I know I’m better than him.”

Harry’s tense form falls. “Yes, you are.”

“And you’re better than him, too.”

“Yes, I am. Though, not by much.”

Zayn frowns. “I don’t like it when you put yourself down like that.”

He rubs circles into Zayn’s exposed shoulder. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Not now, at least.”

“Good.”

“Would you like me to wash you?”

“I don’t think I could do it myself,” Zayn answers. “It’s better if you do it.”

“You’re right, per usual, Mr. Malik.”

Harry grabs a sponge from the side, lathers it in soap, and begins to work soft circles into Zayn’s chest. He’s extra careful as to not press down too hard onto his bruises. Though his whole body is sensitive and aching, Harry’s soft touches feel so soothing and gentle on Zayn’s skin. Zayn feels himself falling into the contact, stabled again only by Harry’s voice.

“I found a photo in the pocket of your trousers,” Harry says. “It’s of a woman. A young woman. Who is she?”

Zayn’s heart skips a beat and his ribs shift in pain as his body tenses.

“Zayn? Did I hurt you?”

 _Yes._ “No.”

“Is it what I said?”

Zayn remains silent, and Harry has his answer.

“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to stress you,” Harry apologises.

Zayn shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll tell you.”

“You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to, Zayn.”

“No, I want to tell you.” Zayn pauses the hand that scrubs his body, and looks Harry in the eyes. “I trust you.”

Zayn sees how Harry bites his tongue to refrain from disagreeing; he rewards him an appreciative grin.

“I’ve never told anyone this before,” he confesses and swallows hard.

He gazes down at the water, at his contused body, and tries to ignore the burn of memories as they rise in his throat into words. His tongue is dry and anxious.

“Can I have some water?”

Harry reaches for a glass on the side and fills it with water from the sink. Zayn gulps down the whole glass and gives it back to Harry.

“The woman in the picture…” he begins in a shaky breath. “She’s my mother.”

“Your mother?” Harry frowns and lowers his hands.

“Please keep washing me,” Zayn requests. He doesn’t want Harry to stare at him when he tells this. Harry begins washing him again, his eyes focusing onto Zayn’s body.

“When I was a baby…” He brings a deep inhale into his lungs and begins again. “When I was a baby, we, uhm, we lived in a house. A real house, with a bathroom and a shower and bedrooms with actual beds and a kitchen. There was no alcohol, there was no drugs. We were a family. My mother, my father… and my brother.”

“You had a brother?”

“Harry,” Zayn reminds, when he stops moving his hands.

“Sorry.” He takes his hand under the water to wash his hips, his groin, his legs.

Zayn becomes flustered when Harry skims the sponge over his crotch. “Uh, I forgot where I was.”

Harry fails to hide his cheeky grin. “You had a brother and a house.”

“Right,” he mumbles. “Well, my father… he was a good man back then, or at least I think he was. He loved my mother, and my mother loved him, and it was the way families are supposed to be. And then…” Zayn pauses, and takes in a breath that burns his lungs, “there was a fire.”

“A fire?”

“Are we done now?” Zayn asks, hurriedly, as Harry washes the remaining soap suds off his body.

“No. I need to wash your hair.”

“Okay.”

“We won’t be long.” Harry adds shampoo to Zayn’s hair and rubs it in.

“What is that?” Zayn asks, pointing at the brown bottle on Harry’s hand.

“It’s shampoo.”

“Shampoo?”

“Yes. It’s a new invention by some German guy. It’s soap specifically made for cleaning your hair, makes it smell good. Helena was insistent upon trying it, and I have to say it is good. Though don’t tell her I’ve used it, she’s very protective of it."  

“I won’t,” Zayn promises.

He grimaces at the idea that it’s just something new to keep from Helena, a new secret to replace the last. Zayn wonders if it will always be that way before deciding he’s being ridiculous and shakes it off.

“Am I being too rough? I don’t want to hurt your head,” Harry says, noticing his off expression.

“No,” he assures. “Though, my fingers are tingling. Is it the water?”

Harry smirks. “It’s the cookies. They’re starting to work.”

“It’s making me feel strange,” Zayn muses with a frown. He wiggles his fingers and toes, and shudders.

Harry laughs. “Do you feel less pain?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Harry grabs the glass from the side of the bath and fills it with water. He leans Zayn back at an angle, so he can wash the soap away from his hair. “I think I should give you a hair cut, it’s getting awfully long." 

Zayn hums. “It’s escaped me. I’ve been busy with other pastimes.”

“Other pastimes,” Harry repeats. “I wouldn’t suppose you mean me, would you?”

“Perhaps,” he says, and they both laugh. “You know how to cut hair?”

“Not professionally, no, but I became good at it in the war. When the other men caught on of how decent a job I did with my own hair, everyone wanted me to cut theirs. I became the official war barber,” he tells.

“Something good that came out of it, then.”

“Yes,” Harry mumbles, washing the last of the suds out of Zayn’s hair, “yes, it was.”

“Are you going to do that now, cut my hair?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t mind.” Zayn shrugs his shoulders, meekly. “It does need cutting.”

“Then I shall cut it. Come on, let’s get you out before your skin prunes.”

He helps Zayn stand to his feet and step out of the bath, wrapping a towel around him. Harry grabs the clean clothes he placed out for him and rests them on the side of the sink. 

“You aren’t opposed to wearing my clothes, are you?”

Zayn gives him a relaxed smile, eyes hazy soft. “Not at all.”

“I think you could have gone with one cookie less,” Harry jokes. “I didn’t think any of my trousers would fit you, so it’s just a long shirt I found tucked away and some briefs. I hope that’s alright.”

“That’s fine, Harry, thank you.”

“Do you want me to help you dress?”

“No,” Zayn answers. He wobbled and falls back onto the side of the bath with a wince.

Harry grabs him. “You don’t want to fall back in there. I think it’s best if I do it.”

Zayn mumbles an objection under his breath, but he’s ignored. He watches as Harry slides on a pair of short, elastic-band underwear up his thighs, standing him to slip them on the rest of the way; he takes the towel from around him, dries his shoulders, and slips the shirt over his arms and buttons it up. 

He rests his arms over Harry’s shoulders and leans on him; Harry wraps his arms around his waist. Zayn leans in to kiss him, and almost gets there with Harry succumbing to the pull between them, but he breaks away and leans back, and leaves Zayn feeling the freezing touch of rejection.

_He doesn’t love me._

Zayn bites his lip and looks down. “You don’t even want to touch me, huh?”

Harry sighs. “It’s not that, Zayn. I don’t want to hurt you, you’re already in so much pain.”

“And rejection gives me no resolution.”

“Darling, I’m not rejecting you. How about settling for a kiss on the forehead?”

Zayn grumbles but doesn’t protest. He can’t deny the flutter in his chest at Harry’s care and the timid kiss he leaves on his forehead.

“You’re so good to me, Harry,” Zayn says in a voice a little higher than a whisper and leans against his chest. “What would I have done without you?”

“You probably wouldn’t have been beaten into a four-day unconscious streak,” Harry says.

“It’s not the first time, and it’s not your fault.”

He rubs comforting circles into Zayn’s side. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t wake up. And I was half ready to take you to the hospital, but I thought your father might know we had gone there and I didn’t want to risk it.” 

“A circumspect choice. Though, I don’t see my father going through the trouble of all that.”

“Well, you know him better than I do.”

“Yes, I do.” _I have the scars to prove it._

“I won’t let him do that to you again, Zayn, I won’t,” Harry promises. “I won’t allow that bastard to lay another finger on you. Oh, how could he do this to you? How could he want to hurt you like this? Men like him should spend their nights and days in prison.”

“He’s always been the same,” Zayn says. “His abuse was his way of passing the blame of my mother’s death on to me.”

“He blames you for your mother’s passing?”

Zayn releases a heavy breath. “Yes, I believe he does.”

“This man gets worse and worse,” Harry mutters. “So, it’s been this way your whole life?”

“My whole life.”

“Has he ever done this to you before? You know, this extreme?”

“No.” Zayn shakes his head, holding on tighter to Harry, so he doesn’t have to look at him. “Not this bad. But there have been times before, when I was younger. As I grew older the beatings became lesser and lesser, it became more of a verbal thing, with the occasional blow thrown in for good measure. I think he grew weary of me growing taller, older, more difficult to push around and lock away. Until last week, he was the most decent to me he’s ever been.”

“That doesn’t make it okay, Zayn.”

“I know it doesn’t, Harry.” He closes his sore eyes. “I’m just telling you about me.”

Harry kisses his head again. “I know. Thank you, darling. Shall we go cut your mop now?”

“My mop?” Zayn chuckles.

“Yes, your mop. If I pull it over here, like this…” Harry parts Zayn’s hair down the middle and lets it’s length fall over his face. “You look like a mop.”

“Sometimes, Harry, you really are ridiculous,” Zayn says, humorously. He swats away the hand still messing with his hair and pushes it out the way of his eyes.

“I know I am. I think you love it, though,” Harry says. His eyes are crinkled in humour, but his face sobers upon the realisation of what he’s said.

“Yes, I do,” Zayn mumbles, and moves away from Harry’s chest so Harry can’t hear how his heart picks up at the sudden change in dialogue.

“Zayn.” Harry gently takes his chin under his finger and brings it back up to look at him. “I’m sorry, I’ve made it awkward now, haven’t I?”

 _Yes_ , Zayn wants to say, but he’s deterred by the idea of encouraging the cumbersome mood that’s so suddenly fallen upon them. He doesn’t want it to be like this; he wants it to be carefree and lovely, like how it was before he idiotically drained his heart out to the man. He wants that impossible time again; the past.

So he settles with, “No, you haven’t. Let’s just forget it.”

“Yes, lets do that,” Harry agrees with an affirmative nod and a sincere, comforting smile. “Come on, I’ll find my scissors.”

Somehow, Zayn convinces Harry to let him walk to the spare bedroom—with Harry wrapped around his side for support, because he wouldn’t allow it any other way—where he sits on the bed and waits for Harry to come back after he leaves the room.

He returns with a black bag and a white sheet. He places the sheet on the floor, before taking the chair, sat alone under the window sill, and placing it in the centre. Harry taps the chair in invite.

Zayn limps to the chair and sits down. “This looks like a crime scene.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be killing you. Not today.” Harry leans down and kisses Zayn’s ear. “The next time you frustrate me, perhaps.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

“Considering your one eye is swollen shut already, I’d say that’s impossible,” Harry jokes. He takes a comb from the bag and begins to sweep it through Zayn’s damp hair. “What would you like me to do?”

“I really don’t know.” Zayn shrugs. “What do you think would look best?”

Harry hums for a moment, parting his hair in a different direction. “I think we should shave it.”

“Shave it?” Zayn cries, though wincing when he strains his neck too much.

“Careful,” Harry softly rebukes. “I don’t mean all of it. Just the sides. It’s quite trendy at the moment.”

“Just the sides?”

“Yes. And you leave the top of your hair as it is. We’ll cut yours back a bit. How does that sound?”

“I’m not sure.” Zayn shifts, uncomfortably in the chair. “Just do whatever you want. I trust you with my hair.”

“I’m honoured.” Harry drapes another sheet over Zayn’s shoulders that he didn’t see before. “So the hair doesn’t go down your shirt,” he explains, and disappears again behind him.

Zayn discovers, upon sitting in the chair for almost an hour and a half, that Harry is a perfectionist. He doesn’t let Zayn move until he thinks his hair looks perfect; the way ‘he envisioned it in his mind’, he says to Zayn, when he becomes whiny from sitting in the same position for so long. He continues cutting even when Zayn doesn’t think there’s anything there left to cut.

It’s only when Zayn complains of his limbs hurting again, the medicine wearing off, does Harry finally relent.

“Okay,” Harry says. He comes to stand in front of Zayn and stares at his hair—brows knitted, finger tapping his lip, pensive.

“Well?” Zayn asks, expectantly.

The silence continues, until Harry breaks his brooding demeanour with a charming smile. “I think you’re grazing the heavens,” he says, before adding, “due to my handy work, of course.”

“It looks good, then?”

“Good? It looks brilliant. I have such artistic hands, and you have such a beautiful face, even if it is bruised and busted.” Harry kisses Zayn’s cheek that isn’t cut. “Do you want to see?”

“I’m not sure I want to look at my face.”

“You don’t look too bad. There’s just a few little scrapes here and there,” Harry says, hovering his finger over the cuts.

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Sighing, Harry takes a small mirror from the desk and holds it in front of Zayn.

Harry was right, his hair _does_ look good, shaved at the sides with his long, black hair in a quiff on top, but it doesn’t catch his eyes for long. It’s not what makes him intake a gasp of air.

Zayn’s hands reach up to touch every bruise and cut on his face, his fingers trailing over the lines that blemish his skin so viciously.

The cut on his cheek is deep; so deep that as he pulls both sides of his cheek it’s splits apart with space between it. His lip is twice the size it usually is, with a red line that runs down the side from where the skin has peeled open. Both of his cheeks are bruised, blue and purple and hints of augmentation. And his eye, Oh God, his eye—just looking at it makes his other eye water: it’s so swollen and bruised and red, like a plum, the skin looking like it’s pushed in on itself.

“I look hideous.” He touches the mirror, to see if it’s truly his reflection, and when it is he gapes. “I look so hideous.”

“Zayn, you don’t look that bad. You truly don’t,” Harry assures. “I’ve seen so much worse than this.”

“Of course you have, Harry, you’ve been in the war.”

“Exactly.” Harry places the mirror back on the desk and bends down to Zayn. “And you know what they all said to me? The men who survived? They all told me they were glad to still be breathing. Zayn, if I hadn’t had pulled your father off you, you’d most likely be dead.” He soothingly strokes Zayn’s cheek. “You’re still alive. These wounds will heal.”

“The cut on my cheek will scar.”

“Yes, it will. A battle scar,” Harry jokes.

Zayn chokes out a laugh. “Wasn’t much of a battle.”

“Of course it was. You and I, we make a great team.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, we do. We’re slightly disastrous, but still great.” Harry leans up to kiss Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn grips onto Harry’s shirt and pulls him closer, so their faces are inches apart.

“Zayn,” Harry weakly warns.

“Please kiss me,” Zayn pleads. “Harry, please.”

“Zayn, your lip is busted. It’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” Zayn says in a whine. “It’ll take weeks to heal. Are you not going to kiss me for that long?”

Harry’s breath quickens. “If I have to.”

“No. I won’t allow it.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

“Please kiss me, just once. Just once and I’ll leave it be.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Zayn.”

“You won’t, Harry, you won’t.”

He moves towards Harry, and Harry doesn’t object, doesn’t move back, doesn’t flinch away. He lets Zayn’s lips fall on his, and willingly kisses him back.

Zayn moans into the kiss, because—like he usually is—Harry was right; it hurts. But the pleasure and the relief he feels in Harry’s arms as they wrap around his waist, in his warm embrace, surpasses the pain. 

Harry pulls away much too soon, their breathing compromises by passion. Zayn tries to take his lips back again, but Harry only shakes his head. Zayn wipes a smudge of his blood from Harry’s lip and sucks it off his thumb.

“I told you, it would hurt you,” Harry whispers.

“And I told you, I don’t care.”

Harry takes a tissue from his pocket and dabs it over Zayn’s bleeding lip. “My stubborn man.”

“I’m only stubborn for you,” Zayn says. “I want to kiss you again.”

“No, no, no. You said only one.” Harry laughs. “I knew you’d do this.”

“Please?”

“No. Stop the puppy eyes, Zayn, they won’t work on me. Not today.”

Zayn sighs and gives up. “I’ll convince you again, I will.”

“I have no doubt,” Harry mumbles, and kisses the back of Zayn’s hand. “I think you need more medication.”

“I think you’re right,” Zayn says, as he realises how much his chest hurts. “I feel like I’ve taken a bullet.”

“Oh, baby,” he coos, and kisses Zayn’s forehead. “Do you want to stay in here or downstairs on the couch?”

“Downstairs. I like the fireplace.”

“Good choice, Mr. Malik.” He wraps Zayn’s legs around his waist and picks him up.

“I can walk myself, you know,” Zayn grumbles. 

“I know.”

“So, why don’t you let me walk?”

“Because, somehow, your son of a bitch of a father managed to twist your ankle, and you have a certain proclivity to clumsiness. I don’t want you to fall down the stairs.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and rests his heavy head into Harry’s shoulder. “Sometimes, Harry, you’re too cautious.”

“Always. I always am.”

“Did the war do that, too?” Zayn asks, twirling the small hairs at the back of Harry’s neck between his fingers.

“Yes,” he responds quietly. “Yes, it did.”

“You haven’t had a nightmare for a while.”

“I’ve had them awful since I’ve been away from you,” Harry admits. “They’ve been so real. Waking up alone doesn’t help.”

Guilt strikes at Zayn’s gut, and something in his chest that isn’t his bruises makes him want to wheeze, like he’s winded. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“It’s not your fault, darling.” Harry kisses his hair. “You’ve helped me more than I know, more than I deserve, no doubt.”

“I don’t like when you do that,” Zayn tells him, “put yourself down.”

“I know you don’t. I’m afraid it’s habit.”

“Habits aren’t a good thing.”

“Then, you better stop biting those nails if yours.” Harry rests Zayn back down onto the couch. “Blanket?”

“No, it’s warm in here.” Zayn grabs a cookie from the plate on the side table. “Where is Helena?”

“She’s taking a nap before her shift starts,” he replies, adding more wood to the fireplace.

Zayn frowns. “What time is it?”

“4pm.”

“I thought it was morning.”

“It was, five hours ago.”

“Oh, you’re so funny, Harry,” Zayn dryly says.

As they laugh, Helena comes creaking down the stairs and cuts them into silence. She passes the living room, glaring as if the sight of Zayn encumbers her whole existence—in ways, it does—and disappears into the kitchen.

“Talk of the Devil,” Harry mutters.

“Maybe I should pretend to be asleep,” Zayn seriocomically suggests.

“It wouldn’t help her mood, trust me. She’s in perpetual bitch mode lately.”

“Oh, Harry, don’t be so rude,” Zayn chastises, though he laughs.

Helena reappears and walks into the living room. She rummages around in a drawer for a pin, clips her hair back, and checks her makeup in the mirror above the fireplace. All the while, Zayn stares awkwardly at Harry, chewing on his biscuit. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Harry asks.

“The girls and I are going for lunch before work,” she says, fluffing the short curls of her hair.

“Won’t you be tired?” he asks.

“It’s not like I’m not used to it.”

She turns, looking to Zayn from the corner of her eye, before she strides to Harry and kisses him. Harry turns his head just in time, and her lips land on his cheek.

Zayn grits his jaw.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, honey,” she drawls.

“You might not, I have work,” he replies, keeping his eyes from her.

“Very well.”

She straightens her shirt and steps around Harry, leaving the living room, making no effort to leave quietly with a slam of the front door.

Harry looks back to Zayn with pierced lips and wide eyes, as if to say, ‘do you see what I mean?’.

“Bitch mode,” Zayn agrees.

Harry shakes his head, exasperated. “She’s acting like a child, has been for a while. I don’t even see her anymore, not that I am complaining. I don’t want to see her when she acts this way, and I’d much rather have the company of you.”

Zayn smiles sweetly at him and beckons him forward, where he takes Harry’s hand in his and kisses it. He goes to speak, but his belly gurgles.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks.

“A little.”

“I made macaroni cheese this morning. Would you like some?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever tried it.”

“I’ll go heat some up for you.”

Harry begins to pull away, but Zayn brings him back. “And some tea, please? With honey?” he asks.

“Of course, darling.” 

 

• • XXII • •

 

Harry swore the stars were more beautiful up on the roof at night, and Zayn must admit he was right.

It’s warm enough to only have taken two blankets with them—one beneath them and one over them—and a cup of tea each. ‘The perfect night for star-gazing,’ Harry said, with the clear, cloudless sky above them and the shining moon.

Harry shuffles up the stairs with multiple pillows in his hands. He sets them down on the makeshift bed they’ve made and wraps his arms around Zayn’s waist as he sits down.

“Are you sure you’re warm enough, darling?”

Zayn smiles at him. “I am, thank you.”

“The stars are so bright from here,” Harry says, looking up to the sky with sparkling eyes. “There’s no city lights to disrupt them.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Harry takes his cup of tea and places it to the side, lying back onto the pillows and bringing Zayn with him. They shift around and find a comfortable space, where the night feels just… perfect. With the stars in the sky and the warmth of Harry’s arms as they enclose around him, Zayn sighs in peace.

“No one has ever been up here before, no one except me,” Harry says into the quiet.

“Why not?”

“I’ve never had anyone to bring up here.”

“You didn’t bring Helena up here?”

“No. I don’t believe she likes this sort of thing very much.”

“The stars?”

“Romance.”

“Oh.”

“She always was a closed book,” Harry’s voice is pensive. He pauses for a moment before saying, “You know, I don’t think I even know the name of her mother. Her father’s name I know, but her mother’s she never told me.”

“And after how many years of marriage?”

“Almost six years.”

“I don’t think marriage is supposed to fail after six year, Harry.” Zayn releases a short laugh.

“Darling, it was failing after two. We’ve been hanging by a thread ever since, and I think you were the knife that cut it,” Harry says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square piece of paper. “Here, I forgot to give this to you earlier.”  

Zayn takes the photo from him with paused breath.

“My mother and my brother.” Zayn skims his bitten fingers over the photo with a lamenting sigh. “I wish more than anything in the world I could have met them. I wish I could meet them as I am now and not just as a baby.” 

Harry’s fingers draw soft circles into Zayn’s exposed arm. “You never finished your story from before.”

Zayn closes his eyes, lips bitten. “It’s difficult. I’ve never told anyone before.”

“I know, baby.” Harry kisses the side of his head. “Why don’t you start off from where you paused earlier.”

“Where did I pause?”

“There was a fire.”

“Oh, right.” Zayn swallows, with a nervousness coming to trickle up his throat and make him feel like he can’t take a deep enough breath. “Well… there was a fire.”

Harry hums in encouragement, stroking Zayn’s arms that’s now covered in goosebumps, despite the warm spring weather.

“It was our house, my father said. Someone lit our house on fire. They broke in, in the middle of the night and littered flammable oil everywhere and set it alight. My father worked night shifts, so he wasn’t there.

“I don’t remember it, I was only a child; eight months old, he said. And my father heard accounts of what the neighbours told but he wasn’t there himself to see it. He always swore if he was there he would have saved them.” Zayn wipes a tear away that slips down the side of his face and takes a deep breath.

Harry waits silently for him to continue, his comfort still radiating off him in every way Zayn’s body touches his. He curls on his side, despite the discomfort in his ribs, and leans into Harry’s embrace, keeping the photo of his family in front of him.

“From what witnesses said to my father, my mother and my brother escaped, but they left me behind. They forgot about me. My brother ran back in for me and when he didn’t come out my mother ran back in, too. My brother got out and left me with one of the bystanders and went back for my mother. Neither of them came out again. The fireman said my mother choked on the fumes and my brother got crushed by falling debris.

“That’s why my father has always said it’s my fault. It’s my fault they had to go back in,” Zayn finishes with a shaky breath, with that sharp sting in the bridge of his nose.

Harry wipes the tears from Zayn’s face with the pad of his thumb. “Zayn, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Life… life is just cruel, and it’s more difficult on some than it is on others. Don’t blame yourself for that.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’ve been told it’s my fault for so long…”

“You shouldn’t have been. Zayn, I’m sure you haven’t done anything wrong your whole life. Your heart is so kind, so pure… How could anyone’s death be your fault?”

Gently, like he knows Zayn needs it, Harry leans down and kisses him.

“You’ve been lied to, but I won’t lie to you, Zayn.” He kisses him again. “Your family wouldn’t blame you, I know they wouldn’t. I’ve told you, life is cruel, and it doesn’t stop for anyone. I blamed myself for the death of my family for so long, for so, so long. I used to think, if I had just been there to protect them, then maybe things would have been different. But in my life, I’ve seen more men die from the what could have been’s than bullets. It’s not a way to live.”

 _No, Angel_. Zayn clings to him tighter. As he looks, Harry’s eyes gloss with this sense of profound loss that makes Zayn shudder in resemblance. They look just like a reflection.

“Harry, you can’t blame yourself,” Zayn objects, sniffling. “You can’t. You were away at war, you couldn’t have changed what happened.”

“And you were just a child, Zayn. An innocent baby. You couldn’t have changed what happened.”

Zayn pierces his lips in dissent. He knows that Harry is just as stubborn as him and, as he sweeps his eyes over the deep, sincere hue of Harry’s, sees he isn’t going to win this one.

Deep down he knows Harry is right, he knows he shouldn’t blame himself, that it’s not his fault. But it seems to have become a habit for him to think that it is, and how do you break a life long habit? He knows Harry surely helps with that.

But God, this feels like too much, too much all at once. He’s never told anyone about his mother, no one has ever wanted to listen. And now Harry knows and he can’t take it back. And Harry just accepts him with open arms, in ways he thinks he doesn’t deserve, when he thought Harry was going to push him away again.

He wants to tell Harry, he wants to just say those _three fateful words_ to show Harry how much he means to him. But he knows he shouldn’t, because he knows Harry won’t say it back, and it’ll only hurt him further, and that far down chasm inside him will widen its perimeter and swallow anything good.

Because he doesn’t know what to say, because he knows he can’t do what he truly wants to do, Zayn reaches up and claims Harry’s lips with his. He goes into it with too much passion and he winces at the sting from his lip. Harry tries to pull away, but Zayn doesn’t let him.

He needs him, he needs Harry right now. He goddamn loves the man with all of who he is.

They kiss for God knows how long—although it never feels like long enough to Zayn. They kiss until his lips are sore and he begins to taste blood in his mouth from the re-opened wound, and he knows Harry can probably taste it, too.  

“Zayn,” Harry says in the shortest break between kisses. “Zayn, you’re hurting.”

“No,” Zayn denies, and reaches again for Harry’s lips.

In a sly move, Zayn grabs Harry’s hand in his and trails it down to the opening of his shirt, over his growing crotch.

Much to his dismay, Harry pulls away. “Zayn, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’ll hurt me if you stop touching me.”

He groans. “Don’t say that. Don’t make this so difficult for me.”

Zayn bites at Harry’s lip, looking up to him with such mischievous and needy eyes. “Isn’t that what I do best?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

This time, when Zayn moves Harry’s hand back over the sensitivity of his cock, he doesn’t object and instead moves his hand against the fabric of his briefs.

And Zayn moans when he hits such a delicate spot. He presses his hands deeper into Harry’s waist and rolls his hips against the friction of his hand. Against his leg, Zayn can feel Harry enlarging in his own trousers.

Harry’s lips travel down the base of his neck, being so soft and uncertain and out of his usual frantic and lust-driven demeanour.

“Harry,” Zayn says through a pant, “I want you. I _need_ you.”

Harry takes his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood from Zayn’s lip. “Zayn, I’ll hurt you. You’re still so bruised.”

“You aren’t going to hurt me, you won’t,” Zayn assures.

Harry groans. “We don’t even have—” he begins, but he’s cut off when Zayn presents the jar from his pocket. “You little minx, you. When did you get that?”

“I put it in my pocket when you went to shower.”

“So, you knew this was going to happen, did you?”

Zayn shrugs, a cheeky smile on his mouth. “I knew I wanted it to happen, and I’m good at persuading you.”

Harry shakes his head with a grin. “You always weaken my resolve. I should work on it.”

“Please don’t, it’s benefitting.”

“For _you_. It just leads _me_ into being in difficult positions like this with you, where you always get your way.”

“I know you want to, Harry,” Zayn drawls in a quiet tone. He takes his palm over Harry’s trousers and presses down. “I want you, too. I want to feel you, Harry. Please.”

Harry emits this low growl that sparks arousal into the tip of Zayn’s cock. “You had the shit beaten out of you four days ago. You shouldn’t be this horny.”

“But I am. That’s what you do, Harry.” Their eyes meet with a longing and lustful mutuality. He moves Harry’s hand away from his crotch and places it over his chest. “There’s more hurt in here right now than anywhere else. I need you to numb me. Please, Harry.”

“Oh, Zayn…” Harry trails away.

His eyes are so conflicted, so lost. But beneath the storm of emotion he sees in a meagre glance what Harry wants, what he truly wants. And they want the same thing.

“I promise, if you hurt me I’ll tell you, okay?” Zayn slips a hand around the back of Harry’s neck and pulls them closer. He bucks his hips so their crotches meet, and they both gasp. “Harry.”

“Zayn,” he whispers, clutching Zayn’s hips and pushing them down on his again.

Ah, there it is; submit. And it tastes so fine on Harry’s tongue as it rolls between the space of his.

They stay that way for a while, with Harry’s hesitant gestures leading them at a slow place. The kiss and moan and grind, until it’s no longer enough and Zayn is unbuttoning Harry’s shirt as fast as he can through his sore fingers, and Harry lifts Zayn’s shirt up to his belly and presses his hand down into the slip of his briefs to stroke him.

Zayn pants his name at the touch and kisses him harder, deeper, as if Harry anchors him to this moment.

They change position, so Harry is above and Zayn is underneath. Harry slips off his shirt and his pants and helps Zayn do the same, throwing them both into a pile beside their makeshift bed. He picks up Zayn’s hips and slides off his briefs and takes him into his mouth without heed.

“Oh God, Harry,” Zayn whines. He shifts his hips up to Harry’s mouth, but pauses when it hurts his ribs too much.

Harry notices and pauses. “Am I hurting you?”

“N-no, God no. Keep going, please,” he begs.

Hesitantly, Harry slips down onto him again and takes Zayn all the way back, so he can feel himself clenching against Harry’s throat. He shouts out in pleasure a curse of Harry’s name and rolls his eyes back to the stars. 

Harry was right, the stars look so beautiful. Zayn doesn’t think he’ll forget them now, not when they’re like this, painting this memory in his mind that he’ll look back on with an adoring grin and remember how content he feels.

Oh, there’s that tickle of pleasure at the base of his groin, that seed of summit. His moans become higher, louder, in whistles of Harry’s name, and he loves the fact he can be as loud as he wants because there’s no one around to hear him.

It’s just him and Harry and the stars. And it’s so, so beautiful.

Zayn comes in a burst of pants and proclamations of Harry’s name. And as Harry crawls up his body, stopping on his way to kiss every bruise that’s concealed under the darkness of night, he tastes himself in Harry’s mouth, and he loves it.

“I won’t ever get enough of that,” Harry says between kisses. “You taste so sweet.”

“I’m yours, any time.” He smiles, sated and yet still so hungry.

He hands Harry the jar of Vaseline that was squeezed tightly into his palm. He dips his fingers in and spreads it between Zayn’s thighs, his arse, and over the circumference of his cock as he strokes himself.

Harry is waiting for him, hard and pulsing and red. Zayn spreads his legs apart as far as they can go without it hurting, and Harry slips between them perfectly, like the piece of a puzzle that’s complete.

“Are you sure about this?” Harry asks.

Zayn reaches up to kiss the doubtfulness away from his brows, his eyes, his lips. “Yes, I’m sure. I won’t forgive you if you back out now when you’ve got me so turned on.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry purrs and takes Zayn’s lips within his.

He willingly lets Harry’s tongue delve into his mouth and swirl, as his fingers play with Zayn’s arse to tease him, to open him up.

“Harry,” he moans out.  

“Eager, baby?”

“Yes.”

Zayn shouts out in surprise as Harry’s finger enters him, sliding in and out a few times before another is added. With the pleasure coursing through his body, the pain in his chest, his ribs, his arms, dulls away and he rocks his body against Harry’s hand. His finger’s grip into Harry’s biceps and leave marks he knows will be red even tomorrow.

“Oh, Harry,” he says, breathless. “Harry, you treat me so good, so good.”

Oh, he does. Harry’s fingers feel so inconceivably incredible pumping in and out of him, indulging him in this way. But his fingers are nothing in comparison to what Harry feels like. Nothing. And he needs that.

“Harry. Stop toying with me, I want you. I need to feel you,” Zayn says, almost whimpering. His mouth salivates with the anticipation of Harry’s touch— that’s how desperate he is.  

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

And he slowly, meticulously, moves his fingers from out of Zayn, positions himself in a way that won’t cause him any harm, and eases himself in.

Zayn sighs in relief, whilst Harry’s mouth falls open wide, eyes closed and a gentle moan slithering over his tongue. He brings them closer together, so Harry’s head is in his shoulder, and his hand is in Harry’s hair and he grips tighter with each thrust Harry makes, with the growing speed of each movement.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Harry says, muffled.

It still surprises Zayn, shocks him into nothing but garbles of lustful sounds and messy pants, that it feels this good. It feels so incredibly good that he can’t even think straight.

No one has ever felt this good. No one-night stand with fancy men who swore him into secrecy; no desperate business big-timers who called him baby and tucked dollar bills into the lines of his pockets after they were done; no drunken men whose cocks were far too small for their ego’s.

No, it’s never been this good. He doesn’t ever want this with anyone but Harry. How foreign and strange it would be; he doesn’t even want to think about it. He wants this with Harry, and only with Harry, until the day he dies.

He never lasts long with Harry. The pleasure is as pure and as precious as a crystal, and it’s so overwhelming for him. As he begins to feel that trickle of excitement in his groin, Zayn shifts his hand over the base of his cock and pumps in time with Harry’s thrusts.

“Harry.” Zayn moves against him to ride him closer, and he speeds up. “Harry, I’m gonna come.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” Harry promises, and kisses Zayn as he reaches his high.

His climax soars through him like a forest fire, sparking everything it touches in his bloodstream and bringing him to life, to the single highest peak of his existence. He parts from Harry’s mouth in fortissimo moans of fruition and love.

And he can’t help it as those words slip past his tongue in a moment where he forgets hisself in the pleasure.

“I love you, Harry," he says in an elevated, ardour-filled tone. “I love you so much, Harry.”

At those words, he feels Harry release into him, become one with him, and he moans Zayn’s name just the same.  

Harry falls on top of him, in his exhaustion forgetting his bruised chest. But Zayn doesn’t care—right now, Harry is the numbing morphine coursing through his veins that makes him forget.

“Do you really mean that?” Harry asks huskily, after a few minutes pass. “Do you really love me?”

“Of course I do,” he replies without hesitation. “You’re difficult not to love.”

Harry’s eyes are creamy and affectionate, and not held back by the reigns of temperance, as he stares down at him. He frowns but it’s soft, like he’s adoring, like he’s analysing the love in every line in Zayn’s face and finding his heart to flutter at each one. His skin is rich like velvet on Zayn’s fingertips as they skim across his cheek.

“I love you, Harry,” he says again, in case Harry missed it.

 _Say it back_ , Zayn begs. _Angel, please say it back._

But his prayer, like all his others, go unnoticed, and the sky only blinks back at him in thousands of auspicious stars that gaze down on their fruitful moment.

Harry’s tongue remains still but his lips fall down to meet his, and he moves them back willingly.

It’s a kiss, Zayn notices straight away like a bright neon light, that makes him feel all of the things he knows Harry can’t say. A kiss of care, affection, emotion, devotion. There’s passion riddled inside the calibre of his gun before it shoots off in one deafening bang that ricochets in Zayn’s mind.

It’s not love, but it’s the next best thing Harry can offer. And that’s good enough for Zayn. He laps it up in hopes there’s a never-ending supply, in the hopes that this gleaming phantasm of fervour will never fade or scratch.

Zayn knows in this moment that finally, delectably, Harry is his, and he is Harry’s.

“Thank you,” he whispers as he pulls away, cherry lipped and wild-cheeked. “You have such permitting eyes.”

Zayn repeats what he says with a frown.

“You always let me in, always. You’re never afraid, not of me.” Harry’s eyes are glossy under the dimness around them. “I’m afraid, Zayn. I’m afraid I’ll lose you.”

“Angel,” Zayn coos. He re-positions Harry so they’re lying side by side and drapes the blanket over their naked bodies. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“I am such a fool, Zayn, such a fool,” Harry chokes out.

For a moment he lies still, watching a single tear roll down the side of Harry’s face, because he doesn’t know what to do. What does he do? This inundation rolls over him; Harry isn’t ever this emotional, not like this. _Where is this coming from?_

“Hey,” he soothes, rubbing Harry’s forearm. “Aren’t I supposed to be the crying wreck?”

Harry laughs but returns to frowning lips and wet eyes a second later. “I’m sorry, Zayn.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Zayn lilts. “Harry, you can always be open with me, you can always be honest. I won’t ever judge you.”

“You will,” he argues, eyes adamant. “I know you will. One day you’ll despise me.”

“No,” he softly says, “no, Harry, I won’t ever despise you. I don’t think it’s humanly possible for me to despise you.”

“You promise me?” Harry grasps Zayn’s hand in his. “You promise me you won’t ever hate me, no matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“You promise?”

“I swear on it, Harry. Cross my heart.” He swirls his fingers across his heart.

“I really do care for you, Zayn. You mean so much to me.” He kisses the back of Zayn’s hand. “I don’t deserve you. The world doesn’t deserve you, you’re too good for it.”

He claims Harry’s lips briefly. _This man_. “Perhaps Mars is for me, then.”

“Probably would be no good, too.”

They both laugh together, and the sorrow that shrouded over them is whisked away by the gust of wind that sweeps across the roof.

“Can you say it again?” Harry asks.

“Say what again?”

“That you love me.”

Zayn smirks. “Caught onto it, have you?”

“It’s nice.”

“I remember your indignant expression when I told you the first time.”

“I didn’t believe you, not at first,” he admits. “I thought you’d just gone barmey from the pain you were in. It scared me. Then you kept mumbling it in your sleep and I realised you hadn’t gone barmey at all, you were just afraid, too.  

Zayn’s heart does that thing where it surpasses a beat and skips straight to number four, five, six, seven, eight in quick succession. _This delicate man._

“Barmey?” he asks, confused. 

“That’s the only thing you’re taking from what I just said?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means I thought you’d gone mad.” Harry chuckles. “You had to say it whilst Helena was stood right there, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Zayn defends. “Though, I’m glad she heard.”

“Well, it saved me a job.”

“Do you still love her?” Zayn asks after a silent pause.

“Helena? No. No, I don’t think so. I’ve told you this. I haven’t loved anyone since… since my mother, my sister.”

“I just wanted to make sure,” he mumbles.

God, if Harry still loved her, if he confesses Helena still had a place in his heart… Zayn thinks his would shatter completely. Not having taken Harry’s heart like Harry has so mercilessly taken his is a world less painful than someone else being in the place he chooses to be.

“I know.” Harry kisses Zayn’s hand (he’s noticed Harry likes doing that, and he can’t deny loving it himself). “Look how far we’ve come. You believe me after I say something twice and not ten times, and it’s such progress.”

“Oh, shush.” He playfully slaps Harry’s exposed arm. “So much has happened. I realised my trust for you was subsequent to my love, and once I came to realise it with myself I also realised I shouldn’t doubt you. You’ve proven you know what’s best for me, why shouldn’t I trust that?”

Harry’s face falls a fraction. “I’m honoured that you trust me, I really don’t think you should.”

“Well, if I’m wrong, I’m the fool, aren’t I?”

“We both would be. I’d be a fool to break something so precious.”

“I guess we’re perfect for each other, then.” Zayn proffers a lazy, loved up smile that Harry steals from him greedily.

“Yes, we are.”

Zayn traces Harry’s plumped lips with the tip of his fingers, his eyes gazing up to him in earnest as he takes Zayn’s hand and kisses each finger with a delicacy that makes him sigh. _He loves this man so much._

“Can you do me a favour, Harry?”

“Anything, darling.”

“Make love to me,” he requests ardently. “Make love to me again.”

“Oh, baby.” Harry moans and pulls Zayn’s leg over his hip. “As long as you’re not feeling too sore.”

“I’m not, I promise.”

Harry smirks. “Then, I’d love to.”

Zayn doesn’t remember getting into bed, but that’s where he wakes up. Naked and cold. He shuffles his hand through the sheets and finds them empty.

Harry must have carried him to bed in the early hours of the morning, after they’d finished fucking and kissing and conversing over the different constellations they could see that seem bleak in Zayn’s mind now.

He winces and groans as he sits up, a pain shooting straight through his chest. His whole body aches, and he knows it’s from the questionable exercise he had last night. But can he Hell get himself to regret it. No, a small smile trickles onto his lips in remembrance.

He thinks he can still taste Harry on his tongue.

As he’s sliding back on the shirt that was folded at the bottom of the bed, the door creaks open. Zayn’s heart simultaneously rises and falls as he expects to see Harry walk through the door but Helena does instead.

His lips turn thin, his brows grumbling. She nears the bed, a scowl on her own face but she keeps the objection on her lips silent.

She sits a glass of water and a plate of cookies down on the table beside the bed. “Harry told me to bring these to you when you woke.”

“Where is Harry?”

“Work.”

 _Great_ , Zayn thinks. He checks the clock on the wall and finds it to be just past noon. Harry will be gone for hours yet.

Zayn leans over the plate of cookies and sniffs.

“They’re not poisoned,” she snaps. “Harry made them himself.”

“Can you blame me for thinking?”

She shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“Thank you.”

Helena only nods in acceptance and continues to stand at the side of the bed. She looks Zayn up and down, her disapproval as bright as the sun shining through the window.

“What is it?” Zayn asks, feeling the frustration in his toes just at the burden of her presence.

“Nothing,” she says, biting her lip, before continuing, “I just think it’s disgraceful that Harry lets you stay in our home. Especially like this.”

“He’s taking care of me because he’s a good person. Is that too difficult of a concept for you to grasp?” He grabs the glass of water from the side to stop his fists balling red. “And this is Harry’s home, not yours.”

“I expect you think it’s yours, too.”

“Of course I don’t, Helena.”

“Do you think Harry will ever love you back?” She bites, and somehow she knows exactly where to strike. “He won’t. He won’t love you back. He doesn’t love anyone.”

“Not even you,” Zayn retaliates.

Helena takes in a deep breath. “No, I’m no exception. But if he can’t love me, he certainly won’t love you. He couldn’t.”

“You have no idea how he feels.”

“I do, Zayn. I’m his wife, I’ve known him for much longer than a few months, I’ve known him for years, and I know how he works.”

“If you know how he works, why are you surprised he’s taken interest in me?” he asks.

A cumbersome pause. Her nostrils flare. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect you to walk through my door that night. I expected some other whore or flapper he’d found on the streets. And I certainly didn’t expect you to linger around this long.”

“I’m here because Harry wants me here. I’m sorry if you can’t wrap your mind around that.”

“You’re here to spite me,” she spits.

Zayn moves back in surprise, his mouth parting slight. “Is that what you think? You think I care about you that much? You think I care about you at all?” In her silence, Zayn scoffs. “You are so conceited.”

“He won’t keep you around for much longer. He won’t. He gets bored, he’ll move on. And you’ll be forgotten.”

Zayn ignores the sting in his chest that isn’t caused by the afflictions across his skin. “And you would know, wouldn’t you, Helena?”

He knows he shouldn’t get so riled up by her, he knows he shouldn’t let her get to him like this, especially considering the fact Zayn knows she’s only doing this because she has no Harry to surpass before she lands her attack.

But it’s her fault for thinking Zayn needs the protection of anyone but himself against worded bullets or overgrown envy alike.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurts.

Zayn almost drops the glass in his grasp. Though he tries to keep his shock hidden, his mouth falls open ajar and his voice is a disbelieving whisper. “What?”

“I’m carrying a child. I’m carrying Harry’s child. We’ll finally be a family.”

She’s pregnant? But Harry said…

The gnarling and groused face of James springs into his mind like a coil that’s been wound too tight and finally released.

James: the man who’s self-sufficiently created an enemy of her husband; the man she’s been fucking on the side for years.

Zayn looks to Helena and sees now the subtle hints of her falsity. In her lips as they bite, her fingers that scramble with one another, in her eyes as they can’t stay still.

She’s lying.

If she’s pregnant, it’s not Harry’s—it’s James’. Harry wouldn’t lie to him like that. He wouldn’t, not now, not after everything.

Zayn downs the glass of water in his hand in all but a few gulps. She must think Zayn is a goddamn imbecile.

Despite knowing the truth, Zayn keeps it to himself. He’ll let the calm wave inside him grow into a tsunami. He remains silent, shoulders slumped, while Helena stands there with a smug grin on her face, thinking she’s fooled him.

What a _cunt_.

“You’ll be gone soon. Once you’re all healed, I’ll make sure Harry makes you leave. He’ll want you to leave anyway, once he finds out I’m carrying his child.” She rubs her hand over her belly. “There’s no room for you her, there never was.”

Zayn bites his lip to keep his composure. The bruises on his collarbones groan under his tense muscles as he keeps his anger in check—he always was good at that.

When she no longer has anything to say, Helena exits the room and leaves Zayn holding his glass much too tightly.

God, he just wishes Harry would kick the bitch out. There’s no remorse, no guilt, empathy in his heart for her anymore, not like there was; not like when he thought he was destroying her marriage by falling in love with her husband in some selfish, vain act. Before Zayn realised she’s been fucking a hateful, war-stricken sycophant who wants to hurt her husband in any way he can.

The only thing that stops him from hating the woman entirely is the idea of an innocent baby. One that sits inside her, not knowing what shit storm it’s going to be born into. Pity, pity for the child—if there is one—and so by extension that pity is hers, too.

Zayn knows Harry will feel the same way as him; he’ll pity her. The thought worries him as he sits in bed, not being able to go anywhere, to escape the scenario for just a moment.

If there is a baby, if it is Harry’s and he lied about laying with his wife, Zayn knows Harry will stay with her, he knows Harry will cast him to the side like he has before. Harry may not love his wife, but his own child? He’s not a monster, and Zayn would think less of him if he did anything other than choose the child over him.

Zayn wouldn’t allow anything else; it would break his heart to leave Harry, for Harry to leave him, but he couldn’t stand in the way of something so beautiful. How could he, when he knows what it’s like to not have a good enough father? To be undeservingly raised in a malnourished home? He couldn’t expose an innocent child to the same anguish he faced, he couldn’t. Zayn doesn’t think his heart could take the shame.

The world shouldn’t work by fighting fire with fire: people like Zayn get caught in the crossing of the flames.

But if James is the father, is he any safer? Would Harry still raise the child if James decided he wanted nothing to do with it? Will Harry believe the lie Helena will spin, or will he see past his wife’s bluff? In order to do that, he needs to know the truth.

This whole show has gone on for far too long. Zayn should have told Harry the truth the moment he discovered James and Helena’s little secret, but the looming threat of his father held over him felt too great to try and deceive.

Now that’s not longer there, he has both absolutely nothing and everything left to lose.

Zayn decides, by the time Harry arrives home from work and rushes up the stairs to greet him with a sandwich and a cup of tea, that he’ll tell Harry the truth.

He doesn’t know when he’ll have the chance to do it, how he’ll explain it—though, over the past few hours he’s gone over an abundance of different scenario’s in his head, all with different outcomes—but he knows he will. It’s the right thing to do, he convinces himself. For Harry, for himself, for the unbeknown child in Helena’s belly.   

Harry shuts the bedroom door on his way in and sets the food down on the bedside table. “Did you miss me?” he asks, kissing Zayn’s hair. “I missed you. I missed you a lot.”

“I missed you, too.” Zayn grins, putting the book he was reading to the side.

“How are you feeling?”

“I ache, that’s all.”

“Have you been taking your medication?” Harry wriggles his eyebrows at him.

Zayn turns to the plate on the bed and picks up the last cookie, holding it up for Harry to see. “Yes, Doc.”

“Good. Is it helping?”

“It does, but it wears off quick. It’s my ribs more than anything.”

“I don’t think any of them are broken, possibly fractured,” Harry says. “Though I’m surprised. He kicked you hard enough to shatter them.”

“I’ll be okay. I have you taking care of me.”

Harry smiles at him. “Yes, you do.”

Zayn breaks the cookie in half and gives a piece to Harry, who takes it with a thanks. He pops the other piece into his mouth.

“How was work?” Zayn asks.

“Oh, the usual. Boring, tedious. I was mainly looking over articles from other people, editing them and such. James was his usual pestering, wanker-ish self, though he was awfully reigned back, weary almost. He normally doesn’t hesitate to throw an insult at me, but today I past his desk and he was as quiet as a mouse. I have no idea what that was about. I don’t care, either.” Harry rolls his eyes at the memory but turns light-hearted as he looks back to Zayn. “What about you? What have you been doing?”

“Oh, Nothing. Just reading, listening to the birds.”

 _Tell him,_ a voice from the back of Zayn’s mind says. _Tell him while James is relevant to the conversation._

“Harry, I—” he begins, but pauses when his stomach grumbles.

“You know what, I must be psychic,” Harry says with a chuckle. He grabs the plate with the sandwich on it and balances it in Zayn’s lap. “I walked through the door and I thought, ‘I bet Zayn is hungry, I’ll make him a sandwich’.”

“Harry, listen—”

“You like cheese, right? Is cheese okay? I think we might have some chicken left over from dinner a few nights ago.”

Zayn sighs and looks down to the sandwich below him. _Too late_. “No. No, cheese is great. Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome, my darling.” He kisses the part on Zayn’s hand that is designated only for Harry’s lips. “Your cut is looking better, and the bruise is turning yellow. It’s healing well.”

“Thanks to you and your magic cookies,” Zayn jokes.

“I should have been a nurse instead, huh?”

“You’ve got the hands for it.”

Harry raises both his hands in the air, assessing them with a frown. “I have?”

Zayn hums. “They’re light and gentle. And soft.”

“I always thought why were heavy and rough.”

“Not with me, they’re not.”

“I’m always more careful with you. You’re too precious, I have to be,” Harry murmurs.

Oh, this man. He makes Zayn’s heart swoon. How does everyone he meets not fall in love with him? With his eyes, his charm, his wit. He is the lucky one; he’s so goddamn lucky.

“I love you,” Zayn mumbles in a hesitant voice.

Harry sets his fear to rest, when he smiles at him and leans in closer to kiss his lips, rather than push him away. And there’s nothing faltering or acquiescent in his touch.

 _Perhaps he’s getting used to the idea of it,_ Zayn thinks. If his heart could plaster a smile, if it could giggle and stroke Zayn’s arm like a little girl with a crush, Zayn knows it would.

“Your lip is healing, too,” Harry notices.

“Good riddance. Your trepidation of kissing me is driving me crazy.”

“I’d kiss you all the time if I could. You know that.”

“You can.”

“I can’t,” Harry mumbles against Zayn’s lips, sloppy and slow. “I’d get too carried away, get myself too excited. We can’t have that.”

“Why can’t we, huh?” Zayn drawls. His hand comes to stroke Harry’s wind-bitten cheek. “That sounds like fun.”

“Life is not all about fun, darling. Life is also about food.” He pulls away and motions to Zayn’s sandwich. “Eat.”

“Have you eaten anything?”

“No. Work gets away with me, I forget to.”

Zayn bites into one half of his sandwich and offers the other to Harry. “Here.”

“No,” he refuses. “You eat it. It’s important you keep your strength up.”

“It’s important for you, too. Harry, you can’t chastise me about eating and not eat yourself.”

Harry takes the sandwich with a sigh, a grumble— ‘stubborn man’, he says, as if he’s no better; as if he’s not the reason Zayn is bed-bound instead of walking around and doing _something_ other than just sitting here.

“Would you like dinner tonight?” Harry asks after they’re finished eating. “Helena is leaving for work soon, but I can cook something up. I’m a pretty good chef, not to toot my own horn. Well, as long as it’s limited to bread and pasta and potato.”

“I could always help you…”

“No. You need to rest, stay in bed. I don’t want you hurting yourself further.”

Zayn smiles, side-lipped and adoring. “Your concern is flattering, but I’m not a fragile doll, Harry.”

“I know you aren’t. I’m just overly protective of the things I care for. Of the _people_ I care for.”

“Alright, fine.” Zayn huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I am bored, though. I’ve been stuck in here, staring at the walls all day.”

“Haven’t you been reading?”

“Yes, but books are only so good without the correct scenery.

“Aren’t you picky,” Harry teases. “And where is the correct scenery?”

Zayn hums, pretending to be in thought but he made his mind up hours ago. “Well, the living room is by far the best room in the house. Besides, it has a fireplace and I’m cold. There’s a draft that comes through the window.”

“Oh, that’s not a draft. It’s the ghost.”

Zayn’s eyes bulge. “The what?”

“The ghost. Did I not tell you? Old Bill can be mischievous sometimes, especially at night,” Harry tells in an eerily quiet voice.

A flush of fear shoots down Zayn’s spine in a shiver. “And you let me sleep in here?” he cries.

“Well, now that I think about it, it was quite ridiculous to let you stay in here. You haven’t heard any, you know, creaking in the floorboards, have you?”

Zayn swallows, turning pale. “Yes.”

“Oh, that’s no good.” Harry hums pensively.

“Get me out of here, Harry.”

“Well, I’ll have to, won’t I? We don’t want you getting possessed.”

Possessed?” Zayn’s voice is a panicked yell. “Oh, Harry, I don’t—I don’t play around with demons.”

“I can’t say it’s a pass time of mine, either.”

Harry wraps his arms around Zayn’s legs and lifts him from the bed. And Zayn clings to him like a koala bear, with his book attached firmly between their chests.

“You know,” Harry starts, “I think Old Bill might like the living room, too. Sometimes the rocking chair just sways back and forth, and no one is even in there.”

“What?” Zayn uncurls his head from around Harry’s shoulder and peers over at him. It’s then he sees the amusement tickling at the edges of Harry’s lips; a child-like playfulness he’s only seen a handful of times, one that is as infectious as Harry’s charming smile. “Are you toying with me?”

“Not at all, darling. What makes you think so?”

He groans. “Harry Styles, you are awful.”

“Awfully funny, I know.”

As Harry sits Zayn back down onto the sofa, fluffing and reorganising the cushions to find him a comfortable position, the front door is knocked.

“Are you going to get that?” Zayn asks, as the door knocks a second time.

“Yes, but I’m attending to you, and you are my priority.” Harry opens a blanket wide and lays it across him.

“Go answer it, Harry. I can tuck myself in.” The kiss he leaves on Harry’s cheek pauses the man into submission.

“As you wish.”

He listens as the front door opens and the hallway floorboards creak as someone steps in. There’s grumbling from the other side of the door, low voices that don’t want to be heard. It falls silent for a moment and then the living room door is pushed open.

Zayn’s eyes widen at who enters. “James.”

“Hey, kid,” he greets, no smile on his face.

Harry follows in after, looking begrudging and peeved. He crosses his arms and stands in the doorway with a frown.

“I didn’t want to let him in, but he insisted. I can kick him out if you like,” Harry offers.

“You sound far too eager, Harry.” Zayn chuckles.

“Far too eager,” James mutters, glancing back at a glaring Harry and back to Zayn. “I heard about what happened. I just wanted to see how you are.”

“He’s fine,” Harry says before Zayn can answer. “You can leave now.”

“Does he look okay to you?” James snaps. “Because he doesn’t to me.”

“Guys, please.” Zayn sighs. “Does it always have to be this way? Can’t you get along for five minutes?”

“No,” they say simultaneously.

“Then I think it’s best if you leave the room, Harry.”

“Me?” Harry’s mouth parts.

“Well, James isn’t going to leave the room, is he? He’s here to talk to me.”

“Not for long.”

“Harry,” Zayn says in a chastising tone. “Please.”

Harry rolls his eyes and gives him this look, an ‘ _I don’t agree with this but I want to make you happy_ ’ look that makes Zayn swoon. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me if you need me for anything,” Harry says, and shuts the door behind him.

James pulls the wooden chair from the fireplace in front of Zayn and sits down. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve seen better days.”

“I bet.” He brings his fingers to skim over Zayn’s bruised cheek, but Zayn leans away. “I’ve never seen it this bad.”

“That’s because it’s never _been_ this bad,” Zayn says.

“He must have had a ring on to do that to your cheek like that,” James mutters.

Zayn furrows his brows. “ _He?_ You know it was my father who did this?”

“Who else would have done this?” James says, as if it’s obvious.

“Anyone could have done this to me.” Zayn narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Why did you think it was my father?”

“You shouldn’t be here, Zayn,” he avoids. “How many times have I warned you about staying away from him? He’s not good for you.”

“James, answer the question.”

“And to think I thought you smarter than this.” He shakes his head. “I thought you _better_ than this. And to think that you—”

“James,” he interrupts, jaw grit although it hurts the bruises along the skin covering his teeth. “Did you tell my father?”

James pauses, thinned lips and torn eyes and balled fists. He looks away for a trice and back to Zayn, who stares at him expectantly.

The threat James bore to him weeks ago rings clear in Zayn’s mind like the ricochet of a bullet. Had James told his father about them? Zayn hadn’t spoken a word of his affair with Helena, and so James would have no motive to do so. If he _has_ said something, it’s been out of the cruelness of his own heart, and although Zayn believes himself to be a forgiving man he thinks redemption from that wrong is inconceivable.

“I wanted you to stop seeing _him_.” James motions his head to the door. “To stop gallivanting around with him and do something better, do _someone_ better, for God’s sake.”

“Your protests are becoming tedious,” Zayn says through low tone and a vice-like jaw.

“It could have been anyone, _anyone_ , but you had to choose that son of a bitch.” He stands to his feet and begins to pace along the room.

“James,” Zayn tries.

But he’s insistent. “You had to choose the one man out of a room of 20 that I despised.”

“James, I—” he begins again, but he’s soon cut off. Zayn feels frustration pulse into the tips of his fingers.

“Sometimes, Zayn, I really do think you’re a goddamn moron.”

“I love him, James,” Zayn cries, and finally forces the man into silence.

Behind the walls of the living room, Zayn hears the floorboards creak under a weight and suspects Harry is listening on the other side of the door.

James’ eyes shoot open in an incredulous manner that makes him look wild, and his mouth parts. “What did you say?”

Zayn fumbles with his scraped fingers. “I… I love him. I love Harry.”

James grabs at his hair and groans. “Oh, look what you’ve done! That bastard’s got you hooked around his manipulative, little finger.”

“Why do you always blame Harry? I’m the one who fell for him. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me.”

“Oh, I do. I blame both of you,” he says in a censurable tone. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I can’t help who I fall for.”

“No, but you could have stayed away. You could have listened to me when I warned you. Now you’ve gone and fallen down a rabbit hole and there’s no way out.”

“Warned me from what? From Harry?” Zayn scoffs. “There’s nothing of him to fear.”

“There’s everything to fear,” he says, spitting. “He’s a war dog, too, Zayn. He was in the war, he did the same things I did.”

“And yet, you’re two completely different men.”

“After everything that happened, after everything that will…” James pauses and blows out his cheeks in chagrin. “Despite my efforts to deter you, you seem so incessant to come and jump into his bed the moment my back is turned. Are you out to get me? Are you out of your mi—" 

“Despite your efforts to deter me.” Zayn leans forward with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean, James?”

“What do I _mean_? I told you to stay away, I warned you about him, I goddamn threatened you because I thought it was scare you away, and you’re still here,” he rants.

“You have a disturbingly good habit of not answering my questions, James,” he gnaws, irate.

“You should be running for the goddamn hills and yet you’re sat here in his fucking clothes.”

“James Hoyden, enough!” Zayn stands to his feet, wobbling on his twisted ankle and leaning on the sofa for support. James stares back at him in veiled concern and a weariness shown only in raised brows. “You tell me the truth and you tell me the truth now.”

“Zayn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Did you tell my father about us?”

“Zayn, I really don’t—”

“Did-you-tell-my-father?” Zayn repeats slowly, and watches the words sink in to James’ shoulders as they slump, as he twists the rings around his fingers.

James opens his mouth but closes it again, swallowing his lips as if to swallow something he wants to say and knows he shouldn’t. A silence dwells, until he finally looks from his fingers and up to Zayn, who’s standing in anticipation and the tingling of adrenaline that pumps into his heart in beats of ready, set, go.

Blinking, James nods his head. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I did. But, Zayn, you don’t know h—”

By the time the living room doors swing open and Harry bursts in, ablaze, Zayn has already hobbled his way over to James and his sore knuckles come down messily on his cheek.

James falls to the floor as Zayn’s weight is heaved on to him. Zayn groans as an agonising pain ripples through his chest and into his ribs, but he doesn’t pause; he takes James’ moment of disorientation as he hits the floor to knock back his jaw.

“You fucking bastard,” Zayn growls through his strained throat, landing another blow. “How could you do that? How could you do that to me?”

It’s a punch, a blow, and James’ hands finally come to raise above his head. In Zayn’s weakness, James manages to push him off and crawl to his feet with a bloodied lip and a stumble.

Zayn’s frame is lifted up from the ground and into an embrace. His head falls into Harry’s palm, and his shaking hands reach down to grasp at Harry’s chest, and his hot and angry tears are wiped away by Harry’s cold fingers, and his lips, in a moment where neither of them care what James thinks, are taken in by the warmth of Harry’s.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers, kissing him again chastely. “It’s okay.”

His hands soothes the back of Zayn’s head as it tucks into his chest. Harry kisses his hair and holds his other arm tightly around Zayn’s waist.

Zayn is thankful for the adrenaline coursing through him, otherwise he’d be squirming on the floor in pain.

“Look at you, look at you both,” James says, disgust in his tone. “It’s humiliating to watch.”

“You shut your goddamn fucking mouth,” Harry warns in a roar, pointing at him indignantly. “You’re lucky I haven’t got my hands on you yet.”

“How can you act this way? How can you act this way with him, after what you’ve—”

“If you don’t shut your bastard mouth right now, I’ll make sure you leave here crawling,” Harry threatens, and quietens James into a brief silence.

Zayn looks up to Harry, who’s eyes are wide and threatening to abandon composure. He looks to James, who has the audacity to stand there, looking offended, jaw locked and reddened from the thrust of Zayn’s fists.

“Why would you do this?” Zayn asks, voice cracking. “Why would you treat me this way?”

“I had no choice! If you weren’t going to leave him willingly, I had to find a way.”

“You sound insane. You sound fucking insane, James!”

“I didn’t think”— He spits blood out onto Harry’s floor and holds his jaw — “I didn’t think he’d do this. I didn’t think he’d go this hard on you.”

“And that makes it okay?” Zayn cries.

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” Harry asks, stepping away from Zayn and toward James. “The right thing? If he’d been there alone, Clane would have _killed_ him. Did you want that? Do you think that was the right thingy?”

“But he didn’t die, did he? Because, as usual, the knight in shining armour was there to save him and make the world a good place again.”

Harry grabs James by the scruff of his coat and pushes him against the wall. The sinews of Harry’s shoulders bustle and strain against James’ thrashing grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“You’re a sick fucking man, Hoyden,” Harry spits. “How dare you come into my home, how dare you come to see Zayn, when you’ve done this to him.”

“And what about what you’ve done, huh? What about what you’ll do?” James sneers. “You stand here and act like you haven’t sinned your whole life.”

“Do you see his bruises?” Using one hand to hold James against the wall, Harry points back at Zayn, who stands and watches as a disoriented and betrayed by-stander. “Do you see his cuts? The pain he’s in? It’s because of you. All of this is because of you.”

“You’ve pushed me to do this! You should have left him alone when I told you to,” James argues, venomous and hissing. “He’s a stupid, young kid, he’ll forgive me. But you—”

“No, I won’t,” Zayn interrupts. His fists crack under pressure, as he feels the burdening anger of being talked about like he’s not here. “I don’t forgive you for this. I won’t. I won’t ever forgive you.”

“Zayn.”

“I could have died,” he murmurs. “I could have died, and you wouldn’t have cared. I could have died, and you would still have blamed Harry.”

“Because it would be his fault!”

Harry pushes his back against the wall, and he groans.

“Harry is the only one who took me in. He’s the only one who’s cared,” Zayn fights. “If it wasn’t for him, I would be dead on that floor, bled out and rotting. And it would have been _your fault._ You twisted, war-mongering _cunt.”_

“Zayn, please.”

Zayn limps over to Harry, leaning over his shoulder to rear his distaste in James’ face. “You won’t ever understand the depth of the hurt you inflicted on me,” Zayn’s voice cracks as he speaks. “I hate that you’ve done this. I hate how you must be this… this _monster_ that ruins everything he touches and offers no attention at redemption. I don’t want to be the one you touch and shatter and destroy. Not anymore.”

“Zay—”

“I don’t ever, _ever,_ want to see your face again. I don’t want to speak to you, about you. I don’t want to hear you say my name, I don’t want you to look at me, be near me, again. _Ever again._ I hope you take heed of that.”

“Zayn, listen to me—”

“Did you not just hear a word he said?” Harry slams his back into the wall again.

“Loud and clear,” James elicits in a grunt.

As Zayn walks away, his back facing both the men as his eyes cloud with more tears, James drops to the ground with a thud and a pant.

“Get out of my house,” Harry says.

“You’ll come craw—” 

“Are you a deaf man?” Harry shouts. “Get the fuck out of my house. Now.”

There’s a brief moment where everything falls to silence, and Zayn can pretend, as he stares into the pits of the fireplace and prays for the pain in his chest to rest, that everything is okay. 

A moment where he can pretend that this whole fucked up situation is nothing but a delusion, a nightmare that he can’t shake. Just a _second_ where he can believe falsely that his heart hasn’t cracked by the penetrating loss of a childhood friend, who’s turned into a man he can’t even recognise himself.

Heavy footsteps across the wooden floor, a pound of whispers and grumbles. Harry shoves James out into the hallway, Zayn can tell by his stumbling boots. A minute later the door is opened and slammed shut, a breeze passing through with it.

As Harry enters the room again and his presence comes to chill and comfort, Zayn feels the lump, this encumbering ball of bile and anger and hate and jealousy and burden he’s suppressed, rise up his throat and dissolve on his tongue like a bitter pill.

Harry’s hands land over Zayn’s tense shoulders. “Darling, I’m sorry that happened to you. I shouldn’t have even let him in, I should have told him to leave.”

“No,” he rushes out. “No, I’m glad I know. I’m glad I know.”

“He won’t get away with this, he won’t. I’ll make sure he—”

“She’s fucking him,” Zayn blurts out, like if he doesn’t he’ll choke. “Shes fucking him, Harry.”

He turns around to see the frowning, lost, concerned face of his angel. Though he takes a step back, Harry’s hands never leave him.

“I don’t understand.”

He closes his eyes with a sigh, rubbing his forehead _. I’m not gonna get out of this one_.

In his mind, Zayn can already feel the hurt this will burden Harry with. He can feel it because a pain on Harry is a pain on him, too. Whatever Harry feels, he feels, too. That’s how love works.

But he’s dug himself a hole and Harry is peering down at him, and he hopes they’ll be a hand to pull him out.

“Helena,” he says quietly. His eyes flicker up to Harry, who stands patiently waiting.

“What about Helena? Zayn, what on earth does Helena have to do with _any_ of th—”

“ _She’s sleeping with him_ ,” Zayn repeats louder. “Helena is sleeping with him.”

“With who? Zayn, with who?” he asks, rubbing Zayn’s shoulders as if to encourage him to say more.

But he can’t. And in his silence, in the quiet of the room, Zayn finally sees the resolute drops of realisation trickle into Harry’s countenance. In Zayn’s reluctance, Harry finds his answer.

“With James?” he whispers. “She’s sleeping… with James?”

Zayn only shakes his head and lowers his eyes to the floor. Harry’s hands finally leave his side, straddle through the tips of his hair as he walks to the other side of the room. He peers out the window for God knows how long, with seconds seeming to trail by like slow motion to Zayn.

Harry turns back to him. One hand tracing the edges of his lips and another at the base of his hip. He’s in pensive thought, eyes gloomy and foreboding this storm of rain Zayn knows is to come.

“How long have they been sleeping with one another?”

“James told me two years.”

“Two years,” Harry murmurs under his breath with a scoff. He paces back and forth before standing still again. “How long have you known? About the affair?” he asks.

Zayn shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Zayn.”

“A few weeks, at most,” he confesses with a sigh. “They were at the bar together, that’s when I learnt of their affair. The night I came to you…”

“The night I first made love to you,” Harry completes. “That’s what was in your mind? That’s what you wouldn’t tell me?”

Zayn takes a deep breath and nods. “I felt so torn. And James… Oh, Harry, he threatened to tell my father if I told you what they had.”

Harry huffs in frustration and paces again, as if he’ll go mad if he keeps his feet still. “That son of a bitch. That _son of a bitch_.”

“I wanted to tell you, Harry, I did. But what happened between us, I didn’t want to ruin it. And then we didn’t speak for weeks, and I’ve spent the last few days switching between being numbed in being in pain. I was going to tell you, believe me, I was. I’m sorry I didn’t,” he rambles on.

Harry walks over to him and takes Zayn into his arms. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay, baby. I don’t blame you. None of this is your fault. You’ve got caught in the middle of all my fucking mess.”

“I don’t mind,” Zayn says, peering up to him.

God, he’d wipe away all the consternation and torment in Harry’s face if he could. From every line, every callous, every pore. Zayn reaches up to touch his cheek, and Harry leans down to him with a bittersweet smile.

“You should, you fool. You should mind,” he gently scorns. “You don’t deserve any of this.”

“I love you, Harry. Of course I don’t mind. I should but I don’t.”

Zayn thought proclaiming his love for Harry would ease him, make him smile like it did last time and the time before. But the stressed lines on Harry’s face seem to only deepen at the words.

“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t care for me, not like this.” He sighs, tightens his arms around Zayn’s waist, and rests his chin into his shoulder. “My stubborn, foolish boy.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, darling. You aren’t responsible for the actions of my wife or her… _hobbies_ ,” Harry doesn’t reign back the resentment in his tone. “It’s not your fault. I feel like a fool for not seeing it earlier.”

“If I hadn’t seen them in the speakeasy that night I’d be nonethewiser, too. You aren’t stupid for not seeing it, I didn’t see it either. I don’t think anyone did.”

Harry leans away. “Her night shifts aren’t actually night shifts, are they?”

“No, I don’t believe they are,” Zayn replies.

Harry grunts. “And all the hack she gave you for being with me, for me being with you. That hypocritical bitch.”

“It makes sense, in hindsight.”

“Yes, it does,” Harry says. “Jealous cow.”

“Harry.” Zayn laughs.

“What? Of course she was jealous of you. You have my attention and something she couldn’t ever have.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Real beauty.”

Zayn looks to him, his heart squeamish and swooning in his chest and reflecting in his eyes. “Ever the flatterer, Mr. Styles. Though, I hope you aren’t making the situation sexual.”

“Well, I was going to, just to ease the tension, but I suppose I can’t anymore, otherwise my lover will chastise me like a child.”

“Lover, huh?” Zayn grins.

“Of course. You leave me and let me make love to you. How could you not be my lover?”

Zayn giggles, _he giggles_. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am.” Harry kisses his head. “I think you need to sit down. You took a nasty blow when you fell. Although, I’ll admit I didn’t know you could pull such a sharp right hook like that. I’ll be surprised if James’ teeth aren’t loose after that one.”

“James taught me how to do it, is the ironic thing.”

“Serves him fucking right.”

Zayn falls back onto the settee with a grunt. Harry fusses with the cushions and the blanket until Zayn has to shove him off with a laugh. “Harry, I’m fine.”

“I just want to make sure your comfy.”

“I am, thank you.” He kisses Harry’s cheek, and Harry smiles down at him.

“You’re welcome.” He kisses Zayn back and walks to the small table of alcohol’s. He pulls two glasses forward and fills them with an amber liquid. “Whiskey? It’ll help with the pain.”

“It’s not illegal for you to have this stuff, is it?” Zayn asks, taking the tumbler from him.

“Not whiskey. No, you can buy it from the pharmacy down town. You didn’t know that?”

“We’re in the middle of the Prohibition. I didn’t think you could buy any legal alcohol.”

“Well, you’re allowed a pint of whiskey every week if it’s from the pharmacy. It’s considered medicinal. I went down to get some for you on Friday, after everything happened,” Harry tells. “Why? Don’t tell me the man who helped run a speakeasy is concerned of me harbouring illegal alcohol in my home.”

“Unwillingly helped run,” Zayn mutters.

“Which is still help. Don’t worry, darling, most cops don’t say anything even if they do find illegal alcohol. And if they do they take it and drink it themselves.”

Zayn pulls his nose above the glass and sniffs with distaste. “I don’t like whiskey. It’s too bitter, burns too much.”

“It’s one of the better juices. Gin is… rough.” He shakes his head. “Has a bad effect on me.”

“What kind of effect?”

“Oh, just, you know, makes me moody, ill-tempered. It gives me more nightmares, makes me remember more from before,” Harry explains with low eyes. “I only realised because of you.”

Zayn frowns. “Because of me?”

“You gave me that beer, made me a little woozy but I slept good that night. No nightmares, only your face.” He smirks at Zayn. “Which is a good thing, really. I used to drink it to help me sleep, but… it wasn’t really helping me, was it? So, I have you to thank for that."  

“You’re the one who asked me for something weak.”

“But you’re the one who gave me the drink. It was in your hands. For that, I owe you. You’ve changed my life in a lot of ways, Zayn. In ways, perhaps, you don’t recognise.”

Zayn looks down coyly at his drink, his head shaking in objection. “You shouldn’t make me responsible for those type of things.”

“But I do. If they weren’t in my life, if _you_ weren’t in my life, those things wouldn’t be in place. They’re all because of you.”

“You give me too much credit, Harry.”

“Oh, on the contrary, darling, I don’t give you enough credit.” Harry leans over the sofa and kisses him. He motions down to Zayn’s glass. “Drink it up, it’ll help with the pain. Gulp it if it’s easier.”

Hesitating, Zayn takes Harry’s advice and gulps down the drink in one, grimacing like he’s swallowed oil. He reaches for the glass of water on the side to remove the lingering taste in his mouth. “That was horrid.”

“But it’ll help you.” Harry swallows the rest of his drink and places both of their glasses on the floor.

“I hope so.”

“It will.” He pecks Zayn’s cheek. “Just give it time.” His lips move closer to Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn drops the empty water glass down on his lap and twirls his hands around Harry’s chin to pull him closer. He locks their lips in a kiss and moans. Somehow, because Harry has this magic ability to make everything seem better, the whiskey tastes so much sweeter on his tongue than it did in his own glass. He laps it up like it’s honey.

Harry edges closer, careful not to lean on Zayn’s legs or hurt his hip as his hand lands on it with a squeeze. When he gently, so so gently, bites the edge of Zayn’s lip, Zayn feels this pulse of electric simmer through him and his pain fades away, and he doesn’t know whether it’s the whiskey or not.

When Harry slips away, he moans. “I didn’t want you to stop.”

“I know you didn’t, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

Despite his plea, the only thing he gets is a quick kiss on the cheek, and Harry sits back. He keeps his hand on Zayn’s thigh, rubbing circles. He looks away and although Zayn notices the soft crow’s feet on his forehead and the pensiveness of his eyes, Harry seems oddly calm.

“You don’t seem too surprised by the situation,” Zayn says.

“What situation?”

“Well, I just told you your wife is fucking the man who despises you, and you don’t have much to say about it.”

Harry hums. “I don’t have much to say about it, I suppose. Helena has had her own dalliances in the past, just like I have. I’m not surprised by that. And I would be surprised by how low she is to stoop and run around with Hoyden, but as of how she’s acted of late, I’m not surprised at all." 

“You’re not hurt by it?”

“Of course I am,” Harry says, “but what am I to do about it? I’ve distanced myself from Helena for a while now, I’ve been too engrossed in you.”

Zayn shifts uncomfortably. “You don’t think it’s my fault, do you?”

“What? No, of course I don’t,” he reassures. “How can it be? They were with one another long before I even knew you existed. In fact, if the timeline is correct and it was two years ago, that would align with my first promotion, when James’ hatred for me grew. Son of a bitch probably seduced her to spite me.”

“I think he loves her,” Zayn says. “It may have started off that way, but I think he loves her now. He’s not the type to invest in something so much if he isn’t interested enough. At least, I think so. I could be wrong, I don’t know him anymore.”

“You aren’t going to see him again, are you?”

Zayn shakes his head. “No, I meant what I said. I don’t want to see him again.”

“Good. It’s better without people like that in your life, Zayn. They do you no good.”

“I know.” He raises Harry’s hand to kiss it.

“Hey, that’s my thing.” Harry pouts.

“Oh? I wasn’t under the impression that you invented chivalry.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame. I was planning on laying down a carpet for you to walk on, but I suppose my plans have gone to waste.”

Zayn chuckles. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yes, I am. Isn’t that why you love me?”

Zayn grins at him adoringly. “Yes, it is. One of the many reasons.”

“I like that. Although, I have to say your affection is misplaced.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t choose where my heart lands. No one does.”

“No, you’re right,” Harry mumbles through a teeth-trodden smile. He checks his watch. “It’s 7pm. Are you hungry? I can cook dinner. I bought a steak, thought you might like to try one.”

“How did you know I’ve never tried it?”

“Zayn, you’d never tried a hot shower before I met you. A steak seems like an obvious one.”

“You’re right.” He laughs. “I’d love to try it, thank you.”

“You are more than welcome.” He looks to Zayn, thoughtful and speculative. “Are you sure you’re okay, Zayn? About everything with James. I know he’s an arsehole.”

“I’m okay. A little hurt but not that surprised, if I’m honest with you.” He looks down to his lap. “I’ve known James since we were children, but I don’t think that boy exists anymore. I don’t know _him_ anymore. It’s like speaking about a stranger.”

“He’s no good for you, Zayn. He’s not. Neither of them are.”

Zayn’s heart pinches at the remembrance of his father. He inhales and says, “yeah, I know. I’m glad I have you, Harry. You mean so much to me.”

“And you, to me,” Harry replies, and kisses Zayn’s forehead. “I’ll make a start on dinner.”

“You know, I could get used to this,” Zayn muses with a cheeky grin. “You, cooking me dinner every night. Relaxing.”

“I’ll cook you dinner every night if you let me, baby.”

And Harry, as ever, remains true to his word. He cooks Zayn dinner every night for two weeks and prepares breakfast for him every morning for a week more.

The weeks fly by. Zayn spends most of it sat down or lay in bed, despite his efforts to do more. Harry’s insistence on taking the right time to heal ceased him from doing nothing much more than relaxing and reading and eating—which, as some substance began to show back on Zayn’s face, his belly, his legs, pleased Harry immensely.

Both of them only saw Helena in passing, usually in the mornings for breakfast and at night as she routinely showered and masked her face. Her things, Zayn noticed one day as he lay in Harry’s wifeless bed, had moved from the room. Harry informed him she’d moved all of her things to the spare bedroom and he hadn’t objected.  

Zayn didn’t object, either.

He admits, it’s been heavenly to go to sleep and wake up next to Harry every morning and night. Even Harry’s seen the positive effects, with the hue under his eyes lightening from less nights of broken sleep and more energy in the day without the encouragement of alcohol.

And he confesses, even though it’s awful of him, he finds such pleasure in making love to Harry in his bed, whilst his wife sleeps in the other room. And even these thin walls that no longer keep their secret can hold Zayn’s moans—the slamming of departure at the front door during their sex proves so.

Zayn looks into the bathroom mirror, a pleased smile on his face at the sight of his augmented and fading bruises. His ribs no longer feel painful to move or touch—only sore if too much pressure lays down on them—and his face, apart from the scar that lays permanently across his cheek, is now clear. Only a limp in his left leg remains.

He dresses in his trousers and a borrowed shirt from Harry’s closet, and wipes his damp hair with a towel. Harry is cooking in the kitchen when he arrives downstairs. Zayn wraps his arms around his waist and leaves kisses to his bare shoulders.

“Why do you insist on being shirtless so often?” Zayn asks.

“If it’s a problem I can put a shirt on.”

“I didn’t say that.” He runs his hands across Harry’s sinewy chest. “I very much like it. I’m just curious.”

“I like being free,” he says. “Shirts, they twist around and get too tight when I move. I prefer being shirtless.”

“You like being free, huh?” Zayn says lowly and slides his hands down Harry’s chest to the zipper of his trousers. “Maybe we should take these off, too.”

Harry turns with a chuckle and kisses him. “I’m making dinner.”

“What are you making?”

“I’m not quite sure what it’s called. It’s a foreign book I found, has overseas dishes and such. This one is called…” He leans over to look at the open cookbook on the side, “Ch’ao. It’s chopped meat and vegetables cooked on the stove in some oil. I thought it might be nice.”

“It sounds lovely,” Zayn says, dragging his fingers up and down Harry’s chest. “Although, I could think of something much tastier.”

Zayn pops the button on Harry’s trousers and slides his hand in. Harry gives him those goo goo eyes, bitten lips, and Zayn knows he isn’t going to get an objection; not when his hand finds Harry’s cock and strokes up, and he gasps. Zayn pushes him back to the countertop, where his hands come to grasp as Zayn falls to his knees.

“Zayn, dinner will be done soon,” Harry weakly protests, stirring the food around in the pan and dropping the spoon.

But he doesn’t listen. He just pulls Harry’s trousers and briefs down to mid-thigh and looks up to him with fluttering lashes. “What if I want my dessert first?”

He doesn’t give Harry time to reply, taking him all the way into his mouth. Harry’s instinctive hands reach into Zayn’s hair as he caresses and sucks and leaves Harry in a mess of whimpers and whispers of his name.

“What’s gotten into you?” Harry asks, panting.

 _A lovebug called Harry_ , he thinks but doesn’t stop his actions.

Zayn doesn’t know how long he’s down there, but his knees become sore and Harry’s hold on his hair grows tighter, and he begins to thrust in Zayn’s mouth with loud breaths. And Zayn loves every moment of it.

He pushes back, so Harry’s cock hits the back of his throat, and swallows, over and over again, until he’s making sloppy gagging noises against Harry’s skin, and Harry is proclaiming how beautiful he looks like this; in this carnal, desiring way, below him, having his mouth fucked out. His hands play between Harry’s thighs and down onto his own crotch.

“Sweet Mother of God,” Harry says in a moan. His head low, eyes closed, mouth parted in utter pleasure. “Baby.”

Zayn sucks harder, bobs his head faster, until he feels the trickle of Harry’s warm cum down his throat. Harry cries out, stills under Zayn’s touches. His head is thrown back to the heavens, his neck protruding with tight blueish veins. Zayn rides him down from his high, moaning himself at the closeness he feels between the two of them in this moment, and stumbles back to his feet.

He sniffs the air and looks over to the stove. “Ah, the food has burnt.”

Harry pulls Zayn’s chin up and connects them in a deep and needy kiss. Zayn winds his arms around his neck. They switch around, so Zayn is being lifted onto the counter-top and Harry is pushing into his crotch.

“It’s your fault,” Harry mumbles in a break from their mouths. “I told you I was trying to prepare dinner. Now look what you’ve done.”

Zayn moans as the skin on his neck is bitten down on. “I can’t get enough of you, Harry. This is what you signed up for.”

“You’re lucky I want you just as you want me.” He draws his mouth down Zayn’s neck to the exposed V where the top buttons remain unlocked. “You’ve just showered, but I’m going to have to get you all sweaty again.”

“I’ll allow you, if you take me out to dinner. I’ll be starving when you’re done. I always am.”

“Done.”

He slips Zayn down from the side and undoes his trousers. His semi-hard length is taken between Harry’s cold palms as he’s sat back on the side.

“No briefs?” Harry croakily asks.

“Thought it would be less hassle for the inevitable.”

“The inevitable, huh?”

Zayn hums. “You struggle just as much as me to keep your hands to yourself.”

“I can’t argue with that.” He pulls the small jar of Vaseline from his pocket. “You know, I always keep this on me now. Just in case.”

“It’s a good thing you do. Think of all the missed opportunities that could have occurred otherwise.”

Harry hums. “Come here, shut up. Let me kiss you.”

When Zayn comes, he comes hard; to the point where he sees stars under his eyes for minutes after, where his body shakes until Harry pushes his cock back into him and starts all over again, and Harry tries to pick him up and sit him on the kitchen but they stumble and end up as just panting and affection-riddled creatures on the kitchen floor.

They climb back in the shower, and Harry can’t keep his goddamn hands to himself and fucks him up against the tiled bathroom wall again, so hard that when they’re at dinner, and Harry sits on the side of the table closest to Zayn so he can grab at his thighs and squirm his hand across his crotch, that Zayn can’t sit comfortably in his chair.

And his hands don’t stop there, not even when they spend far too long in the back of Harry’s car, kissing and confessing and grabbing any touches they can in the small confinement’s of the backseat; not even when Zayn can’t help but sit Harry on the front of his car as they pull into the driveway and blow him again, and Harry calls him a greedy man with a sweet tooth whilst he summits to a high.

Not even as they lay in bed, and Harry confesses to him that he doesn’t think there’s enough left in him to go for anymore, that he could have conceived twins by now, but they still continue into the early hours of the morning, with the walls their only witness to Zayn’s profane proclamations of love and devotion, and Harry’s sweet kisses that follow in promises he swears he doesn’t have the strength to keep.

Not even now, as Zayn eyes flutter open to the explosion of serene pleasure down in his groin and he comes into Harry’s mouth, who stares up at him for between his trembling thighs.

“Good morning,” Harry lilts, angelic and glowing in the morning sun—like he wasn’t just on his knees in sinful conviction.

“I wondered why I was dreaming of you,” Zayn says, breathless.

“I thought it would be nicer to wake up in pleasure instead of pain.”

Harry crawls up his body and slithers his tongue into Zayn’s mouth. And Zayn can still _fucking taste himself_ on his tongue.

“You’re insatiable.”

“Yes, I am,” Harry says and flicks his tongue across Zayn’s lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore, though it was for a worthy cause.” Zayn smirks.

“I enjoyed last night. The entirety of last evening, in fact.”

“I bet you did. But you won’t be able to fuck me against a shower wall again any time soon,” Zayn says. He strokes Harry’s biceps. “I can’t sit down properly.”

“And I can’t lay down properly.” Harry rolls off Zayn and carefully lies on his side beside him. “You’ve left sufficient and equally sore indentations on my back. I hope you consider this as even ground.”

Zayn laughs. “Throw in breakfast and I do.”

“Fair enough. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Me, too. I’ll go make breakfast, then.”

“No.” Zayn pauses him when he begins to move. “Just stay here with me for a while longer.”

Harry climbs back onto the bed and intertwines himself with Zayn. Their legs are locked, Harry’s arms around Zayn’s waist, as close as they can be to one another.

“How did you sleep?” Zayn asks quietly.

“Good,” he mumbles in reply. “Yes, I slept really good. The best that I have in a while. You wore me out.”

“ _I_ wore _you_ out?” Zayn parts his mouth in a scoff. “My ass is probably as red as a baboon and I wore _you_ out? Harry, you bemuse me.”

“I can’t help that you have this control over me. Are you sure you aren’t slipping me a potion?”

“Of what? Lust and gluttony? No, I’m no witch.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem to have cast a spell over me.”

Zayn giggles and slaps Harry’s chest. “You’re cringe-worthy. But, if love is a potion I assume I must have.”

“Then I am happily under your spell.” He trickles his lips back over Zayn’s and moves their tongues together.

When Zayn pulls away, his lips are red and swollen and glossy under the morning light. The sun beams in through the window and paints the mundane white walls a pink and a fire and a crimson, glazing over Harry’s head and making him look so beautiful. Like an angel, with his light halo and celestial skin that shine. 

And then, as Zayn remembers the one dream he had that stands out like a tornado from the rest of his quiet night, a shadow falls over the room and the glimmer of a smile he wore is lost.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks.

Zayn swallows. “It’s just, uh… it’s just a dream I had.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I know all about bad dreams. They can seem so real.”

“No, no it’s okay,” he assures and offers a short, false smile. But Harry, with lowered brows and a confused expression, sees straight through it. He sighs. “I think—I’ve been thinking about going back.”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “You’re perfectly fine here, you don’t need to go back.”

“I don’t mean permanently. There’s just some things that I left there I want to recover. I don’t want them left there.”

“Like what?”

“I have savings tucked away under my bed. It’s about a hundred dollars worth of notes and such that I’ve accumulated over the years.”

“Why? Why do you have savings?”

“Well, I planned to get away at some point. But I needed enough money.”

“You’ve gotten away now, you’re with me. You don’t need to run anymore.” Harry takes Zayn’s hand in his. “I can pay you that back. I don’t see why you would need the money, I’ll give you everything you want and need.”

Zayn shakes his head. “It’s not about the money, per se. It’s more about the principle. I earned that money.”

“You’ve earned more than a few dirty dollar bills, Zayn. I’m—darling, I’m very opposed to you even stepping a foot in there. If your father sees you—”

“He won’t,” Zayn interrupts. “I don’t plan on speaking to him, or even seeing him. I know how to get around without being seen, I’ve done it my whole life.”

Harry suspires. “Zayn…”

“The picture of my family is there,” Zayn says. “I have the picture of my mother, the one in my pocket. But there’s a photo of my family. Of me and mother, my father and my brother. It’s the only thing I have left of my family, Harry. I don’t want to leave it there, I _can’t_ just leave it there.”

Zayn sees the conflict in Harry’s eyes. He bites his lip, looks away, and flings his gaze back onto Zayn’s in a huff. “I don’t want you going back there.”

“I’m not exactly excited at the idea of going there, Harry. But I can’t just leave this behind, I can’t.”

“At least let me come with you.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t want _you_ going there. I know my way around, I’ve lived there for years. I know which floorboards creak and which doors squeak. And if my father sees you… I don’t want the same thing happening to you as it did to me.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Harry,” Zayn softly whines with pleading eyes.

He needs to do this, he _must._ Otherwise, Zayn doesn’t think he can move on. It’s been playing on his mind for weeks now, and it’s something he’s decided must have a conclusion; a wound that he needs to pull the blade from to heal. 

Harry swallows his lips and reluctantly nods. “When will you go?"

“Tomorrow. I’ll be in an out and back here before you know I’ve gone.”

“No, tell me before you leave. Please, tell me before you leave,” Harry says.

Zayn thinks he can give him that. He nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Harry squeezes Zayn’s hand with a smile, though his brows and the lines beside his eyes remain disgruntled. “I think breakfast is in order now.”

“Right.” Zayn kisses his lips, but Harry doesn’t kiss him back. His chest falls. “I love you, Harry.”

Harry offers a thin-lipped smile and jumps from the bed. “I know you do. I’ll go make breakfast.”

“Harry,” Zayn calls to him, but he’s already fled the room.

He sighs. _This moody man._ Zayn grabs Harry’s shirt from the floor and slips it on, and walks—waddles, really, because is arse is still so sore—downstairs and into the kitchen.

The back door is wide open and a draft sweeps in. Harry is stood outside, his feet into the dewy grass, his back to the house, and as Zayn walks closer he notices the deep breaths Harry slowly brings into his lungs.

Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s cold chest. “Have I upset you?"

“No,” he says in a monotonous mumble. “I’ve upset myself.”

“Is there anything I can do about that?”

“Nothing that you want to do.”

Zayn sighs. “Harry, I have to go back there. We’ve just been over this.”

“I know, I know you do.” He brings Zayn’s hands up to his lips and kisses them both. “I’m just being me. I’m overly protective, I know. But I don’t think I could bare seeing you the way I did weeks ago.”

“That won’t happen again. I promise.”

“It’s dangerous there. I’ve been so happy having you here the last few weeks. So happy.”

“I know, Harry. You’ve made me happy, too.”

“And you going back there… it’s like this bubble is going to burst. That everything is going to come crashing down."

“It won’t.” Zayn pulls Harry around and takes his face into his hands. “It won’t. I can take care of myself. Not as good as you can, but I can.”

“I know you can.”

“I promise, nothing will happen. I’ll go and be back here and I’ll kiss you and tell you I love you. And we can be happy still.” He leans up to kiss Harry.

“I’m afraid, Zayn,” he admits.

 _Oh, my angel_. His heart loops in an unpleasant way, in a way that makes him pout. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of. Come here.”

Harry’s chin folds into the crook of Zayn’s neck as they take one another in a hug. They stay there, just holding one another, until Zayn shivers in the cold frost of the morning and Harry pulls away. 

“Come on, lets get inside. I’m starving and your cold,” Harry says.

“I’m starving _and_ cold.”

“Or the more reason then, my darling.” He wraps Zayn’s legs around his waist with a jump and carries him inside.

And, despite how sore he feels, he lets Harry take him again on the kitchen table, in the hopes that it will put his worries to rest.

 


	6. our gentle sin

 

 • • XXIII • •

 

Harry wakes in a sweat and jolts up from the bed, mind blazing, heading banging against the walls of his skull. _I knew I shouldn’t have drank that gin_ , his first thought is with a groan. He reaches beside him to bring Zayn close but finds the sheets empty.

The one morning he has a nightmare and Zayn isn’t there beside him. Their body clocks are synced in like two menstruating women—it amuses him.

“Zayn?” he calls, but there’s no answer.

He shifts into his trousers and straightens the blankets on the bed. As he passes the vanity, he notices a small note of paper with scribbled ink on it and picks it up.

 

_Angel,_

_Headed out to the speakeasy, I’ll be back before nightfall. I love you xx_

 

 _Nightfall?_ He looks to his watch with knitted brows and sees that it reads 3pm. _Fuck,_ he’s supposed to be at work. He sighs and rubs his eyes. That gin _wasn’t_ a good idea.

The pounding in his head is excused when he walks into the hallway and finds his office door open ajar, the wind pulling it back and forth with squeaks—the only reason he notices.

 _Perhaps Zayn is back already._ He walks towards it and opens it wide, his eyes scanning the room.

“Zayn?” he calls, but again he gets no answer.

 _How did the door get open?_ he thinks. There’s no way he left it open; no, he’s not that clumsy. He always makes sure he locks it before he leaves, and only he and Zayn know where the keys are; one of which sits across Harry’s neck on a chain. He paces into the room and checks the compartment underneath the piano stool—the spare key is still there.

Harry doesn’t know why but he gets this strange feeling in his chest, one that pushes him to the drawer in his desk that holds all his unpublished papers and notes. He shuffles through the pile with hasty fingers, his heart quickening when he gets to the end and sees no sign of the papers he’s looking for; the ones riddled with Zayn’s name he’s been purposefully keeping at the bottom of his drawer, so even _he_ would forget about them.

His mouth parts slight. _They’re not here. Why aren’t they here?_

He quickly checks through the wad of papers again to see if his eyes have deceived him, but he comes up empty handed.

_Fuck._

From downstairs he hears the floorboards creak. In a hurry, he closes the drawer and leaves his office, making sure it’s locked this time. He takes his slow time walking down the stairs, thinking of what he’s going to say to Zayn if this is actually happening, if he’s not dreaming and this is the start of a nightmare. But his tongue twists in his mouth, and he realises that there’s nothing he could say that would help show the situation in a different light.

God, his heart is in his throat. Harry thought he had his fair share of explosion, but he’s worried now that the whole house will go up in smithereens at his own foolish nature.

Holding his breath, he enters the kitchen, but he doesn’t find any sign of Zayn. Instead, Helena is stood beside the table, buttering toast. He physically sighs. _Thank God,_ he thinks. He never thought he’d be relieved to not have Zayn in the house.

As he walks past the table Harry grabs the slice of toast from Helena’s plate.

“That was my bread _,_ ” she scowls.

“I think you’ll find it’s my bread, actually. I bought it.”

She slams the butter tray back down in the cupboard. “It’s _ours_.”

“Oh, so now it’s ours, is it?” He facetiously remarks and bites into the toast.

“I don’t have time for your pathetic little games, Harry.” She stands to her feet and grabs her bag from the floor. “I have to be at work. And so do you.”

“Have you been in my office?”

“What?”

“Have you been in my office?” he repeats.

She slowly re-shifts the strap over her shoulder. “No, you always keep it locked. Why?”

“It was open.”

“Well, you probably just left it open from the last time you were in there.”

He shakes his head. “I never leave it open, you know that.”

She huffs. “If you’re implying something, Harry, you best just say it. I have to go to work.”

“I’m just asking if you’ve been in there.”

“No, I haven’t,” she says defensively. “Why would I?”

He shrugs. “I never let you in there, and you always were curious. Last night was your perfect chance.”

“My perfect chance? Of what?”

“Of sneaking in there. I was drunk, you could have easily slipped the chain from around my neck.”

“Oh, yes.” She scoffs. “Because out of all the other nights you were out of your mind drunk, last night was the perfect night for me to steal from you. When you were sleeping next to _him_.”

Harry throws the rest of his toast on to the table and takes a step towards her. “It always has to come back to Zayn, doesn’t it? You can’t keep your mouth shut about him for long enough. You _must_ demean him every chance you get.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” she shouts. “He’s sleeping in _my_ bed with _my_ husband in _my_ home. Forgive me for not bowing down to his feet and worshipping him like you pathetically do, when he’s barged in and ruined everything.”

“We were damned long before Zayn walked through that door, Helena,” Harry argues back, voice just as raised. “You know that, we’ve been over this.”

“Yes, but we had redemption on our side! We could have fixed things.” Her sour, glossy eyes glance down to the hand she raises over her belly. “We can still fix things.”

Harry’s eyes follow her movements and seeing where her hand lands, his eyes widen and nostrils flare. _No_. “Don’t you dare tell me what I think you’re going to tell me, Lena. Don’t you _dare.”_

“I’m pregnant, Harry.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, you’re not.” _This isn’t happening, not now._

“Yes, I am,” she says softly.

The crushed air between them becomes devilishly contrasting to the raucous and twisted fog there was moments ago.

When Helena steps forward and reaches to place Harry’s arm on her belly, Harry flinches back—like she’s an open flame and she’ll burn him. He shakes his head repeatedly, his anger rising with each second of silence that passes by.

“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” he says eerily quiet, before raising into a shout. “Do you think I’m a fucking fool?”

“Harry,” she says, her voice soft and manipulative.

But he’s not having it. “I remember the last time we had sex, Helena. I remember it because you didn’t touch me, you didn’t make a sound.”

“You don’t like it when I touch you in bed,” she defends.

“That was back in November. Six months, Helena. I haven’t touched you in six months! You’d be a balloon by now if it was mine.”

“What? Harry, it’s yours. This baby is yo—”

“Goddamnit, Helena.” Harry kicks the chair next to him and it bounces off the table with a bang. Helena steps back, afraid. “I know what you’ve been doing, okay? I know that you’ve been seeing James.”

“Harry—”

“I know it’s him, and I know it’s been going on for a while.” He leans in to her. “And I know that your little work routine is filled with you letting him fuck the goddamn sense out of you like a whore.”

Helena’s palm lands down on Harry’s cheek, and he stands back in surprise. “It’s your fault. You pushed me to go and find someone else because you wouldn’t even look at me.” Her tears are angry as they shed from her eyes. “You wouldn’t even give your own wife the time.”

“I was busy with work every day, you know that.”

“I understood that. I understood that you were a busy man, a hard-working man. But at night you were a free man, a man who should have come home to his wife. But instead you decided to spend it with all those commonplace whores and flappers and your goddamn drink. And I was just here. _Alone_. How was I not to go and find someone else to be the things my husband couldn’t?”

Harry remains silent, massaging the reddening skin of his cheek that still stings with Helena’s mark.

“I didn’t want this to happen. I had _hope_ for us. But then you let _him_ into our home and you pushed me to the side while you disgustingly fell in love with him.”

“I’m not in love with him,” he weakly denies.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh, Harry,” she spits. “The way you look at him is the way a loving man looks at his wife, the way you should look at _me_.”

“You were sleeping with James long before I met Zayn. You ruined us long before I even had a chance to, before you could even attempt at pinning it on Zayn.” Harry’s voice is a rush of anger and defence. His fists are tight and sweating at his sides, his brows formidable and certain, and as he speaks his tone changes to one of quiet, rough assertion. “I have had patience with you, Helena. I have _tried_ for too long now.”

“You sure show it in a peculiar way.”

“But if you are going to have someone else’s child, I do not want you in my house.”

Her mouth drops open. “ _What_?”

 _“I do not_ _want you in my house_ ,” he repeats with more conviction. “Pack up your things, take anything you want. But make sure that you are out by sunset.”

“You can’t do that. Harry.” She reaches for him. “Where will I go? I don’t have anywhere to go.”

He grits his jaw and removes her hand from his arm. “Why don’t you go to that _bastard_ you’ve been letting in between your legs for years.”

She goes to fall to her knees, but Harry picks her up before she can. “Don’t do that, Helena. You aren’t going to cry your way out of this one.”

“Please, Harry,” she begs, her tears unrestrained. “Please don’t do this.”

The good in Harry screams at him to listen to her, to let her stay. She’s his wife, after all. And he doubts James will have the sympathy to let her in to his home, especially with his own wife.

But an image of Zayn, smiling and adoring and loving, flashes in his mind, and he knows he’s already decided. He realises he decided a while ago. It’s Zayn. It’s him over Helena; it has been since the day they met. 

Harry sighs. “Look, I’ll book you into a hotel or something in the city. But you need to move out, you can’t stay here."

“I should be here. This is my home. This is _our_ home,” she sobs. “Let me stay. Please, Harry, I’m pregnant. I can’t live on the streets.”

“I just said I’m going to book you into a hotel, you won’t be on the streets.” Harry rolls his eyes. _Women._ “I’ll make sure you have good accommodation.”

She stands to her feet and taps the tears from her face. Harry sees she tries to compose herself, but her lip quivers and she sobs again. “I want to stay here, Harry.”

The telephone rings in the hallway; loud and chirping and breaking their moment with a chance for Harry to escape.

“You can’t stay here. Not anymore. Perhaps if you treated Zayn a little nicer and didn’t cause trouble wherever you step.”

As Harry moves past her, she clings to him. Her eyes shine, pleading at him. “Harry, darling, please. Don’t do this.”

He sighs and moves his arm from her grip. “I’m not the one who’s done this.”

“Harry, please!” she calls down the hallway.

But Harry doesn’t listen, picking up the phone instead. “Styles residence.” 

“ _Harry_ ,” James’ voice crackles down the receiver.

Harry grunts. _Talk of the fucking Devil._ “What do you want, Hoyden?”

In the background, he hears Helena’s cries come to a halt.

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“I just picked up the fucking home phone, James. Where do you think I am?”

“ _Zayn has been arrested.”_

The grumble on Harry’s lips sheds and falls open. “He’s been arrested? How?”

 _“The speakeasy got infiltrated. Bulls’ took everyone who was there down to the Big House and locked them up. Zayn was there when they arrived,”_ he tells in a calm voice.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, repeating it with a shout. He hits the wall beside the phone.

 _This wasn’t supposed to happen. He didn’t want this to happen._ He’s been ignoring his Boss’ calls and complaints in the hope of avoiding this exact chaotic fucking situation. _How did this happen?_ Harry thinks. _I was so careful._

A gust of wind brushes through the house and sways open the door beside him. And then, Harry remembers his office: the open door and the missing notes and how Helena is the only one in the house. Harry looks to her, who’s standing in the doorway listening intently to the conversation between her husband and her lover, with hard eyes.

“How do you know he’s there, Hoyden?”

“ _Are you going to go and get him? It’s not safe for him to be there al—”_

“Hoyden,” Harry interrupts, voice firmer and more demanding, “how do you know he’s there?”

The only answer he gets is the cutting of the line on the other end as James puts the phone down on him.

“Hoyden!” he fruitlessly shouts down the phone, before slamming it back down onto the holder. “God-fucking- _damnit_!”

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._ Harry pulls at his hair and paces long trails of dread into the hallway carpet. _This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen._ He tried so hard not to let this happen, and it’s playing out in front of him anyway.

Harry strides over to Helena, grabbing her shoulders in his rough palms and pushes her against the wall. She yelps in surprise, alarm flashing in her eyes.

“You went into my office, didn’t you?”

“No,” she denies.

“Tell me the truth, Helena. You went into my office and you took those notes, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she cries. “Harry, you’re hurting me.”

He shakes her angrily, too blinded by panic and betrayal. “Don’t _fucking_ lie to me, Helena Kalleth. Not now. You took my notes, didn’t you? You gave them to James? Did he ask you to take them?”

“Harry,” she whimpers.

“ _Did you take them?”_

“Yes! Yes, I took them,” she admits in a sob. “James told me to take them, to give them to him.”

“Why?” More silence. “ _Helena_.”

“He told me he’d get rid of Zayn for me, to make me happy. He told me he’d help me,” she says, her body wracking with deep, angry cries. “Now let go of me, you fucking asshole!”

Harry shifts his hold on her and steps back, walking towards the other side of the kitchen before returning and swiping his hand across Helena’s cheek. She cries out, backs into the corner, rubbing the side of her cheek where the indentation of Harry’s fingers lay in red tattoos.  

 _That son of a bitch_ , he thinks. For James to stoop to the low of getting Helena to do his dirty work, and then to lie to her about it under the guise that he’s doing it for her, when in reality Harry knows exactly why James has done this. Harry didn’t think it possible, but James Hoyden has reached a new low. _That goddamn son of a bitch_.

“Do you know what you’ve done, you stupid _bitch_? Do you know what’s going to happen? Zayn is in jail because of you.” _Because of me._

“You hit me,” she says, disbelieving, eyes wide. “Harry, you hit me.”

“You deserve a lot fucking more than a goddamn slap, the way you’ve acted,” he glowers. “You’re lucky I’m not like every other man who beats their wives for stepping out of line, and you…” He shakes his finger at her. “You have crossed _every_ line. Every single line I’ve ever drawn. You just can’t help yourself.”

“What was I supposed to do?” she desperately weeps. “Harry, what was I supposed to do? You had me trapped in a corner and James pressing down on me, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what was happening. I still don’t.”

“You had no clue of the situation at hand, and yet you still understood you wanted Zayn out, that you hate him so much you’d rather see him in jail where God knows what is happening to him, rather than here?” he censures, shaking his head. “God, Lena, look how he’s rubbed off on you already, you’re becoming just as awful as him.”

“He’s a good man, Harry,” she says, “deep down he’s a good man.”

“There is not one good goddamn bone in his body.” Harry scoffs. “Fuck. This is so _fucked_.”

“Please don’t hurt him, Harry,” Helena says. “Please don’t hurt Jamie.”

“Hurt him?” He looks to her and sees red. He looks to her and sees the crimson reflection of Hoyden in her eyes. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“No!” She lunges for Harry’s arm and clings. “Harry, you can’t. You can’t hurt him.”

He shoves her off him and she falls to the floor. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get to Zayn.”

“You’re going to him?” she calls as Harry grabs his coat. “Are you really going to him? After what’s happened?”

“He’s in there because of your foolishness, because of James’, because of mine, I’m not just going to leave him there,” he says in a pant; God, he feels like his chest on fire. “I’m going to bring him home.”

She stands to her feet and strides over to him with a frenzied look, her blubbering lips, her drooling eyes. “Home? Here? This isn’t his home, Harry, it’s mine. This is _my_ home.”

“No, no it’s not. Not anymore,” Harry says, before he slams the door behind him, encaging Helena’s wails of complaint.

She follows him out, running through the driveway with bare feet and a red cheek and a broken face that elicits a guilt that goes straight over Harry’s head as her betrayal paints a wet and vivid picture in his mind. And as Harry turns on the ignition and pulls out of the driveway and he begins to speed down the dirt road, her screams are lost beneath the grumbling of the tires.

He speeds through the streets, blinded by his need to get to Zayn before anything bad happens. An image of Zayn sat in the dank darkness of a prison holding cell surrounded by criminals makes his skin crawl. What if Clane got to him again? Bruised him and cut him up like a piece of meat, like he did before. Harry mumbles quiet prayers to himself the entire ride there.

He situates the car right in front of the entrance, too in a rush to consider parking, and barges through the open doors. The officers look up to him, surprised, but he pays no attention. He halts at the front desk.

“I need to check if someone’s locked up here,” Harry says, hands balancing on the black bars that separate them.

“All right,” the officer says slowly. “What’s the name?”

“Zayn. Zayn Malik.”

The officer opens a book log and begins to search through. Harry sees the name long before he does, the letters standing out and shining like they’re neon on the paper, and it feels like it takes him forever to get there.

“One Zayn Malik was logged in at 2pm this afternoon. He’s being held alone in cell 4.”

“Yes! Yes, that’s him. He’s alone?”

“As far as I’m aware, sir.”

 _Oh, thank God._ Harry sighs in relief. “Alright, I want to bail him out.”

“You want to bail him out?”

“Yes.” _Didn’t he just say that?_  

“Sir, jailed men normally have to go to court and be selected for bail in front of a judge,” he explains. “And considering he’s the son of the man being accused of the crimes, crimes he’s been accused of corroborating with, that’s not going to be an option.”

“Well, how long will he be in here?”

The officer shrugs. “Next batch of court hearings is in July.”

Harry gapes. “July? That’s three months.”

“It is, sir.”

Leaning on the counter, Harry places both his hands over his face and groans. _Three months?_ There’s no way he can let Zayn stay in here that long. God knows how Harry would survive without him during that time. He wouldn’t, Harry thinks; he wouldn’t survive. He’d just rot away into a corpse of gin and emotional poverty like he was before they met. And knowing Zayn was in there all on his doing, without his protection, he’d beat himself into a swirl of self-loathing.

And Zayn—he’s still recovering from his wounds, he’s still in a weakened state, and with the fresh hurt Harry knows he feels strained across his skin like open wounds, he fears the parts of Zayn he admires would fade away and dim. Harry knows what prison is like, he’s been there himself—on top of the five years he spent in the mix of muddy jail cells and rainy slopes—and he can’t let anyone he cares for be locked away in somewhere like this. The way the guards would treat Zayn…

Harry’s chest pounds. He hates this; goddamn hates this. He’d rather Zayn be out here, kicking and screaming and punching his chest and his face and breaking his heart, rather than sat in a bleak jail cell, rotting away.

No, he’s not going to let that happen.

“Alright, how much do you want?” Harry asks as he looks up.

“Excuse me?”

He folds out his wallet, skipping through notes. “I have $40 on me. I’ll bail him out now, I don’t give a damn about any trial.”

“Sir, we don’t take bribes.”

“Since when?” Harry tries. “I’ve bribed my way through many a drunken night, and I remember the names of the officers who colluded with me. In fact, I think your face looks familiar…”

The officer’s nostrils flare and a mix of alarm and anger waves over his face, clearly ruffled by how he’s trapped in a corner. A conflicting notion passes over his eyes before he slumps. “Give me a moment, sir,” the officer says, walking out of the door at the back of the room.

Harry stands, impatiently tapping his fingers on the metal surface he leans on. He looks around, counts every word he sees on the poster ads scattered around, listens to the sound of a man screaming his innocence from behind the door of a blocked hallway at the end of the room. 

Five minutes later, the officer returns and sits back down in his chair.

He looks to Harry in a glare and leans forward. When he speaks, his voice is low. “My colleagues and I would be willing to take bail, as long this arrangement remains disclosed.”

“Done,” Harry finals quickly, slipping the money under the bars and tucking his wallet away. “Please get him for me. I’m an impatient man.”  

“What relation are you to the prisoner?”

 _Prisoner? Zayn isn’t a criminal_. “I’m a real good friend. A real good friend.”

“What, you pay his bills or something?”

 _I stick my cock up his arse._ “Yeah, something like that.”

“I’ll just go process this for you, sir.”  

“What?” Harry asks, confused. “It’s a bribe. Why would you process a bribe?”

“We still have to keep record of bail forms, prisoner entries and exits, sir. We can’t just let criminals come and go whenever they want,” he explains.

“Well, how long will that take?”

“I’m not sure. The head Jail House must get the bail form before they can release him. It’ll take a couple hours, maybe.”

“A couple hours.” Harry scowls. “Can’t it be done sooner?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. You can go ahead and sit down on the bench over there and wait. There’s a coffee machine around the corner,” he says and disappears again behind the door.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Harry grumbles with a grit jaw. He sulks his way over to the bench and slumps down.

Eight coffee’s he has to keep his eyes awake, the cups piled together beside him. He reads the newspaper twice, scrutinising his own article and realising, with a sudden disappointment that was mute before, that he’ll never see another one of his articles in this newspaper again, not now, not after this whole fuck up of a mess. He rips out his piece and shoves it into the coat of his pocket.

He loses count of the amount of times he taps his foot on the floor, the minutes he watches pass on the clock, the deep breaths he takes to calm himself. Four hours he’s been here, and there’s no sign of anyone. The place would look like a ghost town if it wasn’t for the bustle of officers that walk through the halls every now and then, some with bustling felons in their arms and other with Lucky Strikes and snickers and curt nods in his direction.

Harry hears a few of them boasting about a speakeasy they evicted earlier on in the day, about how they caught _every dirty, slimy fucker in the place_ , laughing about it with smug grins. Harry doesn’t have to ask which one it is; he puts the pieces together, and he taps his foot and watches the seconds pass by on his clock some more, to refrain from lashing out and getting locked up himself.

12 hours and 21 minutes: that’s how long Harry stays there before the first sign of Zayn even appears. Harry reads it to be 4am, the sky just beginning to lighten outside, when the bars swing open and Zayn steps out from the other side.

Harry’s heart lurches in his chest. He’s goes to smile but his face falls when the wounded and indignant foreboding of a storm expresses itself on Zayn’s face and shadows the whole room, and his relief morphs into a ball of stress and cumbersome tension. He watches in silence as Zayn signs his name on a form and is handed back his possessions: his shoes, his jacket, and the watch Harry gave him which, despite everything, is still intact.

“Zayn,” Harry says quietly, as he sits down on the bench next to him to slip his shoes and jacket back on.

He goes ignored. He tries again but with no success.

They walk out in silence, stroll down the street in silence—practically fucking bathe in it, and it’s like even the early morning birds quieten down as they walk past the trees and re-enter the slow rise of the city’s morning bustle. Harry grows impatient, the tiredness in his eyes and the left-over energy from the coffee and his lack of cigarettes that make his craving run wild mixing together in one big snap of emotion.

“So, this is what I get for paying your bail and waiting twelve and a half hours to bail you out, the silent treatment? I’m not going even going to get a thank you?”

Still, nothing.

They’re just walking—Harry doesn’t particularly know where, and he thinks Zayn doesn’t know, either. His car is still parked at the Big House, probably steaming with tickets that flutter under his windshield. They pass a few stores, a bakery and a jeweller’s and a restaurant, that Harry recognises.

“Zayn, where are we going?” he asks.

Silence.

Harry huffs, but continues to follow him. They end up somewhere in Central Park, surrounded by trees growing their first spring buds and a morning fog that makes Zayn feel even further away from him. As Zayn comes to a halt, the sky cracks in a roar and rain begins to patter down around them.

“You should have left me in there,” Zayn finally says in a quiet voice.

Harry frowns. “What? Zayn I wouldn’t have ju—”

“You think you deserve my gratitude?” He turns around, making Harry stop abruptly on his toes. Zayn’s eyes are wide and discriminating. “You think you deserve a thank you for getting me out when you’re the one who put me in there?”

 _So he knows_ , Harry thinks, and his shoulders fall. “Zayn…”

“How about you give me an apology for destroying everything that I had,” he shouts, irate. “How about you give me an apology for breaking my trust in you so cruelly.”

Harry’s hands fall to his side, defeated. “You’ve seen the notes?”

“Have I seen them?” Zayn laughs. “Do you think I’d be in jail if I hadn’t seen them? James showed me. He showed me the notes, the notes until this morning sat in your desk,” Zayn says sourly.

“James showed you?”

“Oh, yeah. Shoved them right in my face when he arrived with the Bull’s to come lock my ass up, shut down the speakeasy, take everyone away.” He stops pacing and turns to look at Harry, who follows him like a reprimanded child seeking redemption. “What were you planning on doing with them, Harry?”

“Nothing,” he replies honestly. “Nothing, Zayn, I—There was a reason they were locked away in my office. I wasn’t going to use them for anything.”

“So, why did you keep them?”

Harry looks around, eyes ashamed. “I always keep my work.”

“Work?” Zayn steps towards him, lips sneering. “And what a fine piece of work you created. Truly, a masterpiece. Look at everything you’ve done.” He surveys himself and the area around them with his hands. “You’ve taken down a business, ruined a man’s career and broken a boy’s heart.”

Whilst Zayn walks off with frustrated hands in his hair and circles back round, Harry stands still, afraid that whatever he does will be wrong.

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth, Harry? From the start. God, why didn’t you tell me when I saw the notes in your office weeks ago? Why wouldn’t you have just told me the truth then? You had plenty of choice.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he admits. “I knew the longer I left it the more it would hurt you, but then things got so complicated between us and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

He’s calm because he knows he has to be, because he’s never seen Zayn this upset, because he’s never seen that wild glimmer in his eyes before; the glint of a man on his last thread of surety.

“Zayn.” Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead as it bangs. “Please, you must know I didn’t mean anything on those notes. _None of it_.”

“Then why did you write it?”

“I was told to,” he argues. “I was told to do it as a job. And back then you were just a man in a bar that I had no interest in, you meant nothing to me.”

“And that makes it okay? That makes it fucking _okay_? To do this to innocent people.”

“Your father is hardly an innocent man, and all the other drunk bastards in that place. They weren’t innocent, Zayn.”

“But I was!” The veins in Zayn’s neck strain as he shouts. “I was innocent. I _am_ innocent. His eyes turn glassy and his lip quivers in anger. “And it’s been taken away from me. Everything has been taken away from me. I have nothing, Harry. And it’s your fault.”

“You have me,” he says softly, and tries to reach out for him.

But Zayn pushes his hand away. “How can you say that? After everything that you’ve done you think I’m going to just run into your arms? You think I’m that weak?”

“God, Zayn, no, of course I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I care for you! Zayn, you…” he trails off, huffing in frustration. “I care for you so much. I was trying to protect you.”

“Now you sound _exactly_ like him,” Zayn spits. “Hurting me for my own protection? Doing what’s best for me? No one knows what’s best for me except for me.”

“ _Don’t_ compare me to James,” Harry warns. “Zayn, don’t do that. I’m _nothing_ like him.”

Zayn walks up to him, so their faces are all but inches apart, and Harry feels his laboured and heavy breaths down his wet neck. “The only thing you’ve proven to me today, is that you are _exactly_ like him.”

“I don’t recall having your father nearly beat you half to death.”

“No,” he says, huffing and looking Harry up and down, “you just made me wish I was dead instead.”

Harry’s face falls and his heart plunders. He reaches up to touch Zayn’s cheek, and he’s pushed away again before being accepted, Zayn submitting to the touch with closed eyes and the roll of a tear down his cheek that falls into the rain as quick as it appeared.

“Why did you do it, Harry?” he whispers, looking up. “We were so good, everything was finally heading off on a good note.”

“I know. I know it was,” he says, a disconcerted frown on his face. “I tried to tell you, I tried to warn you not to trust me.”

Zayn’s eyes turn hard in a second and he pushes Harry away. “That’s how you justify what you’ve done? _You told me not to trust you_? What kind of bullshit is that? You should have just told me. If you’d have told me at the beginning I would have forgiven you, I would have looked past it, but you…” he sighs in this shaky breath, “you let me sit there and tell you I loved you. You touched me and kissed me and made love to me and let me believe I was safe.”

“I know.”

“You made me live with you.”

“I know.”

“You took care of me in my worst time, comforted me, made me happy.”

“I know.”

“You told me you’d never hurt me like everyone else has!”

“ _Damnit_ , Zayn, I know. _I know_ ,” Harry yells. “I know I hurt you, I won’t forgive myself for it. But I’m here trying to make you see, trying to tell you that I’m sorry. And I have told you, you’ve… fuck, you’ve changed my life, you’ve changed _me._ And knowing that I’ve hurt you pains me, so much that just standing here breathing is difficult. And I know you don’t believe me, but I was trying to protect you. I thought that by hiding it from you I was saving you pain, and I didn’t stop for one moment to think about it blowing up in my face because I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought I was protecting you from the hurt I know you would feel. I know I’d done wrong, I let my boss get in the way of what I wanted to do because I wanted to impress him, and—”

“He killed my family,” Zayn’s voice is low as he speaks. He turns his back away from Harry and glances over into the amber of the distant sunrise.

Harry takes a step forward, eyebrows pinched. “What?”

“Your boss. _Andrew_ ,” he says with repulsion. He looks down and fiddles with the watch around his wrist, eyes blinking back tears. “He was the one who had the house set on fire, he’s the one who…” he swallows, “who killed them. He killed them in cold blood.”

“I don’t…” Harry begins but falls short. His boss? Andrew? No, he couldn’t have. “There must be some sort of mistake.”

“There’s no mistake, Harry,” he snaps. “You’ve been working for the man who murdered my family. James told me that—”

“James? James told you?” he asks. “So, you suddenly believe the things he says, do you?”

“No, I don’t. But it makes sense. It makes sense that he was the one who is behind this if he hates my family, it makes sense that he would get someone else to do his dirty work.”

Harry shakes his head. “I thought Boss was a good man.”

He gave Harry a job when no one would because no one wanted the brooding, terror-ridden, post-war Limey working for them. In ways, he saved Harry’s life. And it’s because of his job that he met Helena—though, what a bittersweet triumph that’s turned out to be. And he knows even thinking this way is cruel and undeserving, but if it wasn’t for his job then he wouldn’t have met Zayn, he wouldn’t know that there were still such kind-hearted and worthy people in the world for him to fight for.

But as his mind rewinds and he thinks to all the facets of clues, the inclinations of the truth that he failed to see before—His boss’ hurried attitude when Harry took too long, when he stalled for three months because of his fear, his attempt at avoidance of this exact situation; his impatience when Harry did so; his resistance of explaining the whole ordeal to Harry in no ways other than, ‘ _it’s your job, just get it done’_ , _‘don’t let me down’_ , his threats to tell Hoyden, to replace him, which he inevitably did—it clicks into place like a dime in a slot inside his mind.

He’s been working for the type of man he went to war to kill.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Zayn says. He pulls the folded notes out of his pocket and waves them around. “You’ve been helping the man who killed my family. The man that I love, Harry, _you are the man that I love_. And you did this.”

“Zayn, I didn’t know. You must believe me, I didn’t know. Do you think I would have worked for him if I knew that he had done that to you?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t have any problem doing this.” He fiercely straightens the notes and shifts his eyes over the writing.

Harry’s eyes turn red at the seams, glossing with desperate plea, but Zayn won’t even look at him to see it. “Zayn, please. I wouldn’t do that to you, _you_ know that—”

“ _A poor, neglected boy who needs a good meal_ ,” he reads aloud.

Harry pauses his breath, and this deep, worthy resentment sinks in. He remembers the night he wrote that, the night he sat at the bar and scribbled it in his pathetic notebook whilst Zayn sat a meter away from him with this adoring smile on his face as he balled his paper and threw it around, like a child at a fairground. The only thing he knew about Zayn back then was that he made Harry’s cock twitch. 

“Give me those,” Harry says, holding out his hand. But Zayn doesn’t move. “Zayn, give me those. They’re my notes, I don’t want you to have them.”

“They’re _my_ notes. They gave them to me in that cell, they’re about me, and I read them over and over again. They’re as good as mine.”

“Zayn, please give me the notes.”

“ _A pathetic duo who’s bargaining chips to surpass a moderately mediocre lifestyle of crime is the sobriety of other people.”_

Harry tries to snatch them away, but Zayn is quicker. “Zayn,” he says slowly, “please give me the notes.”

“ _Thin, looks like”_ —Zayn scoffs out this pained sound— “ _a pair of crutches walking, shouldn’t run a place like this, could probably push him over with my fingers. Sickly looking, possible nose-blower_.” He looks up to Harry with angry tears. “You wrote this. You wrote that I looked like a _goddamn crackwhore.”_

 _God-fucking-damnit_. Harry pulls at his face. “They were written the first night we met. It was first impression, I didn’t… I didn’t think anything would come of it. I didn’t think it’d mean _anything_.”

“It means _everything._ These are your papers, scribbled in your ink, and they have ruined everything,” Zayn cries. “This is more than just useless notes and prices and descriptions. This is detailed description and _heartless_ remarks. And the rest of it… it’s enough to _condemn_ a man. And that’s exactly what happened. My father is going to rot in a prison cell, and it’s your fault!”

“I didn’t know that this was going to happen. I did my job as I was told and when I tried to ask questions, I was shut down. I didn’t fucking know, Zayn,” he says. “And besides, it’s not like your father doesn’t deserve it.”

Zayn takes a heady stride towards him. “I told you, if anything happened to my father, if you did anything to him, I wouldn’t ever forgive you. I said that to you weeks ago.”

“How many times do I have to say I didn’t know for you to believe me?” he asks. “A hundred, a thousand times more? Will you believe me then?”

“I believe you, Harry, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you, it doesn’t change what’s happened.” He looks up and down, shaking his head in a laugh that’s void of humour, that ramps up the tension between them. “You were played like a goddamn fool. You were tricked into doing the Devil’s work, and now look at you. Look at _us._ ”

Zayn is right. He’s been a blind, blind fool. Thinking he was the one who was keeping a secret when really he was a pawn in the whole game. Boss has made him do all the dirty work, and now he’s taking the consequences for not only _his_ actions but the actions of the other’s involved, as well. 

And his stupidity has made him lose the one good thing that’s come from all of this: Zayn. With his good heart, and his wonder, and his ability to make Harry’s life shine despite being full of shadow. He’s losing the light, but his sight—into the past and the future—has never been as impressive. Harry knows how this is going to end, and he’s the one going to be on his knees, praying like a sinner in repent at the end of his time.

“All of this could have been avoided if you’d just thrown these away when you had the chance.”

“I wasn’t going to use them, Zayn,” he says. “I wasn’t. The thought of even touching them after that day in the meadow sickened me. When I sat there and re-read what I’d written, it sickened me. I hated myself for even writing those things about someone I cared so much for.

“They were mine, I wasn’t going to give them to anyone else. I planned to keep them in the bottom of my desk, away from everyone—even me. I could have gotten rid of them, but that wouldn’t have taken away from the situation. You would have just thought it was James who had done it, not me. Would you rather have been blind to it? They’re—Zayn, they’re just words.”

“Those words shattered everything I have!” Zayn’s eyes are livid as he shouts, _roars,_ his voice echoing through the trees of the park. “Yes, I want to be blind to it all, forgive me if that’s wrong. It would hurt so much less.”

Harry is taken silent, mouth pierced, tied up. Zayn emits a low sob between his teeth, the tears swimming in the bottom of his eyes finally falling over his heated skin. His breaths are unsteady, chest moving in unusual rhythm under his shirt— _Harry’s_ shirt.

“You’ve taken everything from me,” he whispers.

“Zayn...”

Harry longs to reach out for him, to wipe away that tear Harry knows is his fault, to try and soften the blow with touches he prays would show in earnest his apology and guilt and repentance. But he keeps his hands at his side in tense fists, knowing that he’ll be censured for even trying. His heart riddles with this ache at the thought of Zayn despising his touch, that he doesn’t want him anymore. It damages his soul with this hopelessness and cold that sets in, in sharp, abysmal waves. Who else is he going to touch? Who else is going to touch him?

“Everything I owned was in that speakeasy,” he says, quietly. “My savings, my books. The one picture of my mother I had, and it’s gone.”

 _Fuck, push the nail in deeper,_ Harry thinks. “Zayn, I didn’t mean for this to—”

“You let me sit there,” he begins, anger bubbling back up in his face, his lips, his eyes, “and tell you I trusted you. You let me sit there and tell you... tell you I loved you. And you knew the whole time that it would end like this. You knew the whole time what was going to happen to me. You played me like I was nothing but a toy.”

“I made a mistake, I know. I know I did. I fucked up, colossally. And I know you shouldn’t ever, ever forgive me, but—”

“You’re right,” Zayn interrupts.

“What?”

“I won’t.” He says, and looks to Harry, forlorn eyes and perturbed lips. “I won’t forgive you.”

Harry pauses to breathe in his words, and it hurts—like blades in the air as it gyrates his lungs and punctures him and leaves him feeling breathless. All his words, all the apologies, the rewrites, the endings, the twists: they disappear into a void of fruitless, wavering time.

Zayn won’t forgive him.

For a fleeting second, Harry wishes the Zayn stood before him was more like the enfeebled, latent version of himself he was when they met, instead of the more refined and strong-headed man Harry has unconsciously encouraged him to be, because he knows _that_ Zayn would ball down at his feet and forgive him, wait to be picked up into Harry’s arms. And this would all be so much easier for him.

“It’s so much more than the notes, Harry.”

“Then, what is it? Tell me, I’ll make it up to you.”

Zayn shakes his head, looks up into the sky and back down to earth again, with a heart-breaking smile on his face. “It’s you. It’s everything about you.”

“About me?”

“I know it was James who gave your boss the notes, and I know Helena was the one who retrieved them for him. I know, James told me. But I expected it from both of them, I expected nothing more. They don’t mean anything to me. But you.” Zayn points to him, lips trembling. “You were my everything. In such a short amount of time, you became… you became my world. I fell for you, quicker than a magic trick.” Zayn snaps his fingers. “I loved you. And you’ve shattered it all.”

Harry can’t hide how his own eyes spring with tears and fall with the patterns of rain that soak their skin. “I never meant for this to happen, Zayn. I tried to stop it.”

“I know you did,” he says, quiet and timid now. “But despite your efforts, it still did. Your attempt at trying to reconcile the situation has failed.”

“I’m still trying to reconcile it.”

“It’s too late for that.” He chokes out this laugh that is neither humorous nor irate; lifeless. His hands address up and down his body. “I’m a goddamn mess. More of a mess than I was when you walked into my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I want you to know that.”

“I do know, Harry. And so you should be.”

“No, you don’t.” He shakes his head. “I want you to understand how deep this regret runs, how deep down into the core of my heart it is. I won’t let this go, I won’t.” 

“No, neither will I,” Zayn replies, a grimace on his lips. “How could I forget?” 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again. 

Zayn takes a step back, resembling so much that of a wounded and bleeding deer, fleeing from the danger, antlers raised in defence. Eyes wide, scintillating with tears under the light. The bruises on his face are still visible, though they’re fading. A small limp still follows his every step.

As he turns around and begins to walk away, and Harry’s footsteps follow, he says, “Don’t follow me, Harry.” 

“If you don’t want me to follow you, don’t walk away from me.”

“I’m walking away from you because I can’t stand to look at you right now,” he calls over the wind that begins to bluster through and pull the rain with it.

“Just come back with me, please,” Harry pleads, following Zayn despite his request. “Come back with me, and we can—”

“You think I’m going to come back with you? To your house? After everything you’ve done?” 

“Well, where are you going to go? To James? Zayn, you can’t go there, not after what he’s done.” 

“You’ve not given me a lot of choice.”

Harry disregards Zayn’s request and follows him. “Zayn, please. Just come back with me. I won’t even stay in the house, I’ll go somewhere else. Don’t go to him.” 

_Please, baby. Please listen to me. Don’t go to him._

“That house is nothing but a reminder of the lies you told me,” Zayn argues. “I’m not stepping a foot in there.”  

“Zayn, please.” Harry huffs, feeling the frustration tickle his judgment, seeping into his fingers as they rush through his hair. “You’re being irrational.” 

Zayn turns back around quick, shock in his parted mouth, his flared nose, his arched brows. “I’m being irrational? For wanting nothing to do with the man that broke my heart so cruelly? I’m in the wrong?” 

“No, I’m not talking about that, Zayn, I just—You can’t go to him, Zayn. You can’t go to James. Look at what he’s done!”

“Look at what you’ve done! You selfish man.” 

“Zayn, please. I’ll ask once more.” 

He releases this broken chuckle, like the pieces of his heart spring onto his tongue and slice his mouth with every word, and it shows him how distressed Zayn truly is, shows what Harry has done. 

“Don’t bother.” Zayn wipes his eyes of tears and shakes his head. “Please, Harry, don’t follow me. Leave me alone, let me be.” 

“Zayn,” Harry whispers. _Please don’t go. I’m sorry._  

“Please, Harry,” he beseeches with slick and marred eyes.

He tries, uses every ounce of strength left in his body, to cement himself to the ground in that moment. So he doesn’t run after Zayn and take him into his arms and try to erase the pain, as Harry watches him walk away, his holed shoes soaking up the water from the floor, splashing in the puddles that begin to form.

He’d let Zayn punch him, beat him and bruise him, rather than this: rather than this aching and soul-quaking separation between them he knows he’s the cause of. He never takes his eyes off Zayn as he walks away, taking Harry’s whole heart with him. He keeps them on the winding path of Central Park even after he disappears, almost like if Harry stares hard enough, long enough, he’ll see Zayn re-appear around the corner and run into his arms and tell him this is just one, nightmarish dream that’s played on for far too long, and he’ll kiss his lips and tuck himself into Harry’s chest and tell him he loves him again because the thought of anyone else saying those three words to him makes his skin crawl now that he’s without it.

But he never does. The pathway remains empty—even when strangers and on-goers walk past with strange glances, as Harry drops to his knees and sobs. He weeps, and he weeps, mouth parted and red eyed and running nose, his tears heavier than all the rain around him and dropping to the floor in claps of thunder that ricochet in the sky.

He cries hard, releasing all the hurt and the anguish he’s held in his chest all morning and night; the anger for James, his boss; the guilt that riddles him for Zayn; the hatred he feels for himself.

He feels so alone, so cold with the realisation that he won’t come home to Zayn today that the rain feels warm as it seeps through his clothes, and this chill slithers up his spine and crackles in his ears. God, Harry misses him already. He missed Zayn the moment he woke up and found the bed vacant beside him; but this—this profound hollowness sinks in, knowing that he’ll be forced to miss Zayn every second, and they’ll be no reward at the end of a hard day for getting through the struggle of life without him. It makes his chest empty, his heart baron of any beats opposed to mandatory monotony.

And fleeting memories, where he remembers the way Zayn’s heart felt against his as they lay beside one another, make him feel as though his heart isn’t beating at all, as he sits there in the rain, his pride vanquished.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, how long he’s been soaking in the sky, but his hair sits flat to his head and he’s chattering down to the bone. Harry wearily stands to his feet, stumbling with numb limbs.

He finds his legs in auto-mode, rushing about along a path that he only recognises when the familiar logo of The New York Times building appears in view, and he drips along the reception, pressing the button on the elevator and storming into his boss’ office without invitation or notice.

The old man sits behind his desk, a newspaper in his hand, glasses on as he stares down at the print in focus. When Harry barges into the room, he glances up with disconcerted brows, but an amused expression plays him, and looks back down.

“Good God, man, what have you been doing? Did you not see it was raining outside when you left the house? Did you not think of putting on a shirt?” he drones.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” he answers in disinterest.

“Why did you _fuck me over?_ ”

Boss looks back up. When he sees the anger swirling with the dampness that drips onto Harry’s face, he sets the newspaper down with a sigh. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean,” Harry snaps. “I see now why you didn’t tell me your true intentions. You knew if I was aware that you were trying to _destroy a family_ , that of which you’d already attempted and half succeeded at, that I wouldn’t have agreed.”

After a pause, Boss says, “Yes, you’re right, I did.”

“Why?”

“I know you’re too much of a good man to do something so cruel, but I needed to get a job done and you worked for me. I had every right to do what I did. I believe you are the one that followed blindly.”

“You wouldn’t tell me, how was I supposed to know? You purposely kept me in the dark.”

“For your own good.”

“For _your_ own good! You did this for your own purpose, don’t try and deny it. And you sat back and watched as I took the stick for it.”

“I don’t know why you’re angry, Harry. You are the only reason you’re so…riled up like a crazed animal, barging into my office as if you’ve lost your sanity.”

“How is this my fault?” Harry cries. “You’re the one who wanted to ruin an innocent life.”

“And you’re the one who fell in love with it,” he shouts in return.

Although Harry wants to object, he’s taken silent; he has no argument. _I’m not in love with him,_ Harry wants to shout, to scream, but, like everything else that’s uprooted itself in his life the past day, he’s not sure of that anymore, either.

“Oh, yes. James told me all about how you’ve been skulking about with the boy,” he says with disgust on his tongue. “I didn’t think you’d stoop so low, Harry. You have a wife.”

“And you didn’t stop for one second to think what it what do to me?”

“No, Harry, I didn’t. It’s not my job to care about how you feel, I’m not your father,” he says, gravelly. “It was a simple job. You had orders, it was supposed to mean nothing to you. But you went and got yourself too wound up in it all and you goddamn fell in love with the goddamn filth of the place.”

“Don’t call him that, don’t you _dare_ call him that, not after what you’ve done to his family,” he defends.

Boss laughs. “Look at you, so wound up over one pathetic boy. Besides, it wasn’t even supposed to be about the son—you and James did that through your blindness of trying to hurt one another. This was about Clane Malik, that son of a bitch. It was just bonus that the son got a hit, too. Although, I heard he hasn’t missed many blows in his life, has he?”

Harry’s feet angrily gait up to the desk, and Boss stands from the chair and takes a step back as Harry’s hands slams down onto the desk and knocks the lamp to the floor.

As Harry speaks, his voice is eerily quiet, though the rage bubbles away under the surface. “Why did you do it? What do you have against him?”

“Against who—the boy? You’ll be ridiculous to think I care enough about him to have something over him.”

“Not Zayn,” he reiterates, eyes glaring. “Clane.”

Wearily, though still holding his assertion, Boss sits back down at the desk with his hands folded in front of him. He motions to the armchair. “You’ll want to sit down.”

Harry remains where he is, still, jaw vice-like and posing effable threat. “No.”

The door behind them begins to creak shut, and Harry glances back to see the curious expressions of the rest of the workers all busied around the door to see the commotion before the door shuts in its hold and the two men are left alone.

“Where would you like to start?”

“At the beginning.”

“Alright,” Boss mumbles. He licks his lips, takes in a deep breath, looking to Harry with these formidable eyes that tell him he isn’t going to like what he hears. “I was 32 years old when my career finally took off. 1903, it was a difficult year, but I earned my success by co-owning a world trades business down in Boston, and it took off. Being such an essential man in a profitable business made me the target of a few men’s injurious plans. I had enemies, we all did. And some of them got in the way.

“One of these men wanted me dead. Michael Moharan: he owned the opposing business that was losing sales to ours. He’d tried to make shady deals with us before, but we didn’t do no business with him, and he didn’t like that. So, he tried to get back at us.”  

Harry re-shifts so he’s standing straight, and Boss runs a hand through his hair. The clock on the wall reads that it’s 8am, but he stands from the desk and over to the small counter, where he picks up a crystal-cut glass, fills it with whiskey, and gulps it down. He stands with his eyes out to the window, his back faced away from Harry.

“My wife and I lived in a quaint house in a quiet suburb further out of the city. My wife was pregnant with our first child, my career was more than adequately providing, we were happy. And then Michael discovered where we lived, and we started getting harassed. Broken windows, threatening letters, all things to try and get me to comply to his wishes. My wife tried to convince me to do business with the bastard, but I wouldn’t have it. One day, whilst I was at work, my wife was assaulted, rushed to the hospital.” He pauses, taking a steady breath. “She lost the baby. Michael had hired a man to attack my wife for revenge.”

A realisation dawns on Harry. “Clane Malik.”

Boss nods and re-fills the glass with whiskey. “Clane fucking Malik. Michael was a powerful man, he was, and some even said he had links down with the mafia. But past his own arrogance he failed to realise I had power of my own. His whole business failed, and we bought it just before it went under, took on the clients they had down on over in Chicago and SanFran and all over New England and expanded our own business. Once he had nothing left, I had Michael and his brother killed, and I tried to do the same with Malik.

“I discovered that I wasn’t the first person Malik had done this to. He’d done dirty business for people all over the city. People paid him good for it, and he had a family to provide for—that’s the only thing I’ve ever respected about the man in any sense. But I couldn’t look past what he did, what he took from me. And so, I had his home set on fire, a little, trash complex down in Roxbury. Lucky bastard wasn’t even in the house when it happened.”

“You killed his wife, his son,” Harry says quietly, his eyes dismayed.

Boss swivels on his feet, eyes smeared and wide. “He killed my unborn child! He nearly killed my wife. Are you telling me that bastard didn’t deserve any of the consequences he faced?”

“How did you even know Clane survived? After all these years?” Harry asks.

“When I first hired James, he kept going on about this son of a bitch who was beating his brother.” He taps his rings against the edge of the glass and looks back out to the city. “Took me a while to realise the boy he was talking about wasn’t actually his brother.”

“Zayn,” Harry spills the name out before he realises he’s talking.

“Asked him who it was. And when the name Malik slipped from his lips…” Boss scoffs. “I almost beat the shit out of him for even _saying_ it. I thought the cunt had died all those years ago back in Boston. Turns out he was following me like a ghost, living in the same city as me, running a business, earning a living. I had checks run on him, watched him closely. But I couldn’t do nothing about it, about him. He had ties in with a few gangs down in Maryland who supplied him with alcohol. He had protection. I learnt that those ties were cut last year, and that’s when I made my move.”

Harry huffs. “Clane Malik runs a fucking illegal speakeasy. Why didn’t you just report him to the police? Why did you go through all the hassle of pulling me and James and Zayn into it all?”

“You know just as good as me that cops don’t do nothing about speakeasies unless they must. They benefit just as good from the establishments as anyone else, if not more. They weren’t gonna do nothing unless I had incriminating evidence against the owner of the establishment, that of which you and James supplied me with generously.”

“I didn’t write anything on those notes that was incriminating other than the fact Clane is abusive. I didn’t write anything that would make a man see jail bars for the rest of his life,” Harry says.

“No, you didn’t,” he replies in a forlorn voice. “James added his own take onto it, added notes of his own. He dug into the business deals Clane had down in Maryland, discovered that he was trying to import alcohol down from Maine, too. He could get away with it in Maryland, most of the speakeasies do, the ignorant fuckers don’t follow the prohibition laws, but in any other state he’s a gone man. And he was idiotic enough to try it.”

Harry isn’t surprised James had a hand in this, that he had to put his two cents in and stamp his mark on the situation, like it’s something he should be proud of. He’ll admit, a part of him is relieved that this whole thing isn’t as much his fault than he previously presumed it to be: in fact, if it weren’t for the notes he _should_ have thrown away, Harry would have been innocent in this whole thing and Zayn wouldn’t hate him. But as usual, James took the opportunity to drag Harry’s name through the mud and hurt him any way he could. 

He looks ahead, dripping still in rain, staring at the man who, as the sun peaks out from the clouds and through the cumbersome fog and splays his morphed and twisted shadow onto the floor, Harry sees in true, defined colour for the first time since they’ve known one another: now, his aura is dark and stained and vindictive, and it poisons the room and makes Harry feel sick as he stands there and consumes this new information that feels so heavy on his heart.

“And Zayn?” he asks. “What did this have to do with Zayn? Why did you want him hurt?”

Boss looks to him as if it’s apparent. “What did I want with him? I wanted to hurt him, that’s what. I wanted to hurt _that_ son of a bitch. A son for a son.”

Harry shakes his head, irate. “Zayn’s father blames him for the death of their family, he doesn’t give a damn about his son. Hurting Zayn has not furthered you in any way to hurting Clane. You’ve just ruined a completely innocent life.”

“The son of an evil man like that is no more innocent,” he argues, teeth gritting together. “Besides, when has it ever been a conflict without a few mis-happens along the way.”

“Zayn’s life is not a mishap.”

“And neither was my son’s!” Boss throws the glass to the other side of the room and shatters along the floor in shards that almost hit Harry’s feet. “My son was innocent in all of this, and so was my wife. But my son was still killed, and my wife was still beaten.”

“You don’t fight fire with fire, it’s not a life for a life. Boss, that’s… that’s not f—”

“Don’t you dare say it isn’t fair to me,” he warns, finger pointing. “Don’t you _dare_ , when I know you were in that war, same as me, and you killed _hundreds_ of innocent lives. You tell me how that’s fair.”

“I did that because I had to, to fight for my country, to fight for the innocent lives we were trying to save.” Harry frustratedly huffs. “Boss, this isn’t the war anymore.”

“This is _my_ war. This is _my_ war, Harry, and after twenty-six years it is finally over,” he ends with this laugh that makes him seem ludicrous. “I’ve won.”

Harry opens his mouth to retaliate, to shoot the bullets that are ready on his tongue, but after babbling with his lips for a moment and just _looking_ at the intolerant expression on Boss’ face, seeing the revolting satisfaction in the creases of his eyes, in the delicately brutal smirk on his lips, he gives up. No matter what he says, the point that he proves, Harry knows he’s lost this one.

“You’re vile,” he says lowly. “You’re a vile man.”

“Oh, Harry, don’t be hasty. You were more than willing to help me in the beginning, when you didn’t allow your emotion to get in the way of your objective, when you knew the distinctness between personal and business.”

The words ring like a familiar bell in his ears, and he scoffs. “You sound exactly like James.”

“Which is who you should be like.”

“You mean, more like you,” Harry says, sounding as though he’s swallowed something bitter. “More like a cruel, selfish, wicked man, who has no desire for anyone other than himself. That is what you wish of me?”

“You should be harder, _fiercer_.” He punches the air with each word. “You should see that you get nowhere in the world from being kind. I suspect you’ve noticed that by now. Until this, you were soaring through this company—hell, I would have considered you taking my place once I was gone. And now you’ve caught yourself in a sappy trap of emotion and you’re sinking. You get _nowhere_ in the world from being kind, Harry.”

He shakes his head indignantly. “You couldn’t be more wrong. You’re an old, bitter shell of a man who can’t let go of the past. You are just like James’ shadow.”

“And you’re only now realising this?” He callously chuckles. “Then you are more naïve than I thought you to be. Let me remind you that you had a hand in all of this.”

“An _unwitting_ hand. I knew you were trying to shut down a speakeasy, and I knew you had a motive, but the depth of your true intentions no one would have guessed, and if I’d have known then I wouldn’t have helped you.”

“So, you would have been willing to just _hand over_ the job to Hoyden, would you? To see him get the reward? After the competition between you two? You and I both know better.”

“I would have. I wouldn’t have wanted any hand in this. Not after—” he begins, but falls short when Zayn’s face springs into his mind like a jack-in-the-box and this jolt of pain withers his chest in.

“What? After the boy?” Boss scoffs. “Harry, don’t make me puke. It’s bad enough you’ve been frolicking about with the trash, yet alone to… connect yourself with him in this way. It’s repulsive.”

“ _Don’t_ … call him that,” he warns.

“Or you’ll what, hit me? Are you going to hurt me, Harry?”

 _Yes_ , he wants to say. He wants to reach over the desk and make his knee one with Boss’ face; make his teeth scatter across the floor like they’re stones; wind him, puncture him so he can’t breath—so he might get an idea of what this suffocating feeling Harry is experiencing from the pain and the betrayal is like; to bring a flame to his skin and watch his skin sizzle, so he can see what he did to Zayn’s family. With the rage coursing through him, Harry is sure he could kill. But he doesn’t move, only digging his nails into his palms and grinding his teeth together to make his jaw ache, to make him feel some of the discomfort he knows he deserves for all of this.

Zayn’s words sing in his mind. _‘You’re a good man. You’re better than him’_ , and he lets go. He eases his shoulders out of their tense hold and inhales the heavy air, and decides that Zayn is right—that despite not being beside him, Harry’s actions rely solely upon Zayn’s decisions, and he knows Zayn wouldn’t want any other blood, any other pain, on his hands that he can’t wash off; Harry thinks he doesn’t want that, either.

“No, I’m not going to touch you,” Harry says, looking him up and down with resentment. “And I don’t want to work at this goddamn company any longer, a company that would rather condemn the people that enlighten them, like it promised.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Boss says, calmer now. “We’ve had a hiccup. But it’s said and done, it’s over now.”

“It’s not for me.”

“Baloney, Harry. Get over it. It’s done, that’s it. What we set out to achieve has been achieved. We can move on. You’re my best writer. Just look at what we’ve achieved together.”

“Heartbreak and pain, that’s what you want to achieve?”

“ _Success_. I want to achieve success. Everyone wants to achieve it, and those who don’t want to I’ll shove out of the door.”

“Then you’ll have to throw me straight out of this office window,” Harry says. “I don’t want anything to do with you, or this company, or its _success_.”

Boss throws his hands around in an exasperated manner. “So, what? Where do we go from here?”

“I quit.”

“You _what_?”

“I quit. I should have a long time ago.”

Harry sees Boss’ eyes fall with alarm and rise I provocative ire in swift succession. He jumps from one side of the room quickly, standing so his face is mere centimetres from Harry’s, spitting venom as he speaks. “You don’t get to quit. You don’t get to goddamn quit, Styles. I didn’t tell you that was allowed.”

“I guess it’s a good job you don’t control me then, isn’t it?” Harry’s eyes glare, as if wishing they could kill. His palms twitch at his side to move, but he keeps them still. “I quit, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I could make sure you don’t get a fucking job again. Is that what you want? To be the same unemployable, fucked up Limey you were when I first met you?”

“You’re lucky I’m not beating the shit out of you right now,” Harry says.

As he leans forward, Boss takes a stumble back so he’s against the desk. Although his posture seems weary, his face is still set as hard as stone.

“You’ve seen what I can do, Harry,” he sneers. “You’ve seen how I can ruin people, what I can do to them, make them completely disappear from the face of the world, their names non-existent. I’ll do the same to you. I could ruin you completely.”

“No, you can’t, and you won’t. I’m not the boy you first met, your threats won’t work on me, Andrew,” Harry says calmly, and steps back. He turns his back to the room, heading for the exit, flexing his fingers. “I’ll pack my things.”

“If you step out of this office now, don’t you dare think about coming back. Don’t run to me when you can’t reconcile this situation, I’ve warned you. You won’t be allowed to step another foot in this building again,” Boss raises his voice as Harry walks away. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Don’t come running back to me, you piece of shit. You’re goddamn fired, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Harry grumbles and he walks from the room and shuts the door on Boss’ incessant threats.

A group of people stand outside the door as he leaves, flustered when Harry’s unexpected exit leaves them looking guilty and down to the ground. He pushes past them, past their staring eyes. A few gasp when the smash of another bottle sounds from behind the office door, and then they all disperse with Veronica’s hushed warning. A pair of footsteps follow closely behind Harry.

“What do you want, Jack?” he asks.

“Hey, Limey,” Jack says, voice light and suck-up and nervous. “So, you’re not really leaving, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you think that’s the best idea? I mean, you heard the boss, he’ll destroy you. We’ve all seen what he can do.”

Harry grabs the box from underneath his desk and piles in his papers, his books, his pens, and the accompanying knick-knacks that label his desk. “He won’t do anything to me, Jack. And if I were you, I’d leave, too. You don’t want to be working for a man like that.”

“I ain’t got much of a choice on that one. It’s a tough economy,” he says, emitting a chuckle before his face sobers. “Look, you’re the only one I’ve ever really liked here and now that you’re leaving—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are that I should stay here, you can save your breath,” Harry says. He checks the drawers, before picking up his box of possessions and heading towards the elevator. When Jack follows him, he sighs. “I’m not staying here, Jack.”

“No, I know you’re not, I wasn’t gonna say that,” he says.

When the elevator door opens, Harry steps inside, leaving Jack on the other side. “Then, what? Hurry up, I’m leaving.”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever liked, the only one here I’ve ever remotely trusted,” he says. “If you, or that boy of yours—”

“Zayn.”

“Right. If you ever need anything.” He pulls a small, rectangular card from his pocket and hands it over to Harry. “That’s my home number, right there. If you need anything, you give me a call. You always helped me out, it’s fair dues that I do the same.”

Harry’s eyes skim over the number, before looking up to him with a glimmer of a smile. “Thanks, Jack.”

“I’ll see you around, Limey,” he says, his knowing expression disappearing behind the elevator doors, and leaving Harry feel as though he’s leaving one good thing behind.

He leaves his badge at the reception on his way out, saying farewell to the guards and the receptionist and everyone else who stops him on the way out to say goodbye. When he steps outside, he intakes the fresh air like he was suffocating without it and looks up to the building, his eyes skimming over the glass-work and the NYT sign one last time with this new-found antipathy in his eyes, a new bitterness on his tongue as he grimaces.

_Is this what Zayn feels like when he thinks of me? Of home?_

Harry tries to swallow the lump as it presents itself in his throat, but it’s no use. It remains, enlarging as he walks back to the Big House with each step to retrieve his car, lingering still as he arrives home to find an empty house that holds its lifelessness even after he passes the threshold.

It remains still, even after he drains the bottles of gin and whiskey and any alcohol he can find in the cabinets to try and push it down, after he stumbles through the house and breaks a vase and falls unconscious in the middle of the stairway, on route to the bedroom but halting in his tracks when he remembers, even past his intoxication, that there’s no Zayn there waiting for him; when he realises that the discomfort of the dusty, wooden stairs against his flesh are just as welcoming.

Harry is in his bed and it’s no longer Tuesday. By the routine shuffle of his neighbour’s car that only leaves once a week, he knows it’s Saturday, and he doesn’t know how four days came to pass by without him knowing, but he suspects it’s the amnesiac qualities of the gin he’s been consuming like water.

And when he begins to remember that he misses Zayn—his kisses and his touches and his smile and his radiance that rushes his heart into a content rhythm—he falls back into the sheets and his head is pounding and his face becomes the rain outside as it hammers against the window pane. His sobs are the only thing he hears as he falls back asleep, cheeks still wet, crying even in his sleep.

As midnight rolls on, Harry wakes in a sweat of terror and alarm, and discovers the sheets next to him to be cold and baron of life. There's no Zayn beside him to warm his bed tonight, no delicate touches to warm Harry's skin, none of his allaying whispers to lull Harry back into the comfort of sleep. And he fears, as a single tear slides down the side of his untouched cheek, that it will be this way from now on. With no Zayn, no music, and no light.

On Monday, when he realises there’s not a drop of alcohol in the house and he can’t find the keys to the cellar for the life of him, Harry makes his way through the city from speakeasy to anywhere he can get a fucking drink, trying not to remember Zayn whenever a bartender asks for his order, and he can’t help but order a Gin Rickey and become lost in the bottom of his glasses as he swallows and grumbles and repeats. Even the bartenders ask what the fuck is wrong with him when they pass him his drinks and he gulps them down without a breath in between.

On Tuesday, as he’s shuffling through the business of a bar in a dizzy stupor, he thinks for a fleeting moment that he sees those familiar golden eyes and black hair pacing through the crowd and dancing along the side of another man. He pushes through the crowd but finds nothing except a woman with short black hair, who Harry takes to the bathroom and has his way with—from behind, so he can pretend it’s Zayn—followed by a dozen strippers and flappers who push themselves in his way in the hope that it will erase the scent of Zayn from his nose.

And for a while it does, until their touches are too harsh on his skin and their moans are too flagrant and high-pitched and their long hair pushes into his face and he remembers that’s it’s not what he wants. Not even when they agree to be called by Zayn’s name and pretend to be him, it makes him feel dirty to be touched by another.

On Thursday he gets a new job, his mind in a complete surprising moment of sobriety remembering that Tarol had once offered him a place at their business.

“Are you okay, Harry?” he asks as they stand in his office. “You look like a dead man walking.”

“Yes, sir,” is his only reply.

Though Harry sees in Tarol’s brows that he goes unconvinced, no objection is spoke.

“All right. Make sure you’re tidied up for when you start work. Have a shave, a good night’s sleep. We want you on point.”

 _You’re wishing for flying stars_ , Harry thinks, but nods nonetheless. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

He turns to exit the office, when he spins back around and returns to the front of the desk. “Actually, sir, there is something you could do for me.”

When he looks in the mirror that night, Harry tries to see himself; tries to say, ‘ _hey, you’re the head of a new goddamn business, the boss of your old boss that fucked you over’_ , but it’s no use. There’s no Zayn to run home to and tell with pride that’ll he’ll be firing and besmirching the reputation of the man who killed his family, and that they can be happy. And it’s only when Harry traces his fingers over the old, nearly empty jar of Vaseline sitting beside his bed, when he realises he can’t shift Zayn between the sheets and fuck him so hard, so raw, so dirty, and so passionately like he deserves, does he realise that Harry loves him.

And his breath is taken away by it, knocked down to the floor in realisation as his legs give out beneath him, like he’s been forced down by a bulldozer that swings through his life and shatters the remains of what he thought was still safe and secure. God, he loves Zayn. He loves him so much, and yet he did this to him; to them, and what they could have been.

On Wednesday the next week, after moping around for days and smashing the mirrors and the glasses and the lamps, after falling asleep every night on the floor in a ball of tears, Harry puts on Zayn’s favourite dress shirt, the one that he’d be more likely to notice in a crowd and goes to Ellen’s. He rummages through the crowds, the bars, the private rooms, falling into a slump of sobs in the bathroom stall that Harry once took Zayn in, to let him fuck his mouth and make him moan and took him against the squeaky walls of the cubicle, realising as he looks around and everything seems black and white and blurs of grey that Zayn was the one who brought the colour to not only this club, but every breath he takes and everything he touches and every thought, every fruitless, inconsequential thought, that runs through his mind.

“Zayn,” he whimpers in his sleep that night, “I love you,” and presses Zayn’s old and ragged shirt that was left behind to his chest like it’s the only thing that keeps him safe.

The next Sunday, when he knows the businesses around are all shut and the common strollers are in church, Harry pulls off the planks that border up _The Black Penny_ and meanders inside, taking anything he can find that looks of value or reminds him of Zayn and shoves it in his bag, before making it look as though no one has been there.

Two Friday’s later, when Harry realises he starts work the Monday coming and he should sober up, despite how monotonous and hellish it seems, and how difficult he knows it will be, he finds himself in front of James Hoyden’s house, with only half a bottle of gin he found in the back of his car sitting in his stomach, which is less than he’s drank in weeks, and so Harry takes it as a personal achievement. He tramples on the flowerbeds as he walks down the garden, deciding to ignore the obvious designated walkway in its design, and raps on the door over and over until it opens, and he looks up with hazy eyes to see the stony expression of a _cunt_ in front of him.

“Good God, you look like a wreck,” James says. He leans to Harry but moves away just as fast. “When was the last time you showered? You smell of spilt liquor and stale cigarettes. And someone else’s perfume, perhaps.”

“Where is he?” he asks, mumbling.

“And God knows when the last time you slept was. You look dead, Harry, I’m actually concerned.”

James’ furrowed brows turn pointed, mouth parted, when Harry’s fists wrap around the collar of his shirt and push him into the house. As they stumble into the living room, James’ wife raises to her feet with a yell of alarm and moves out of the way. Harry pushes him over the table and jabs his fists at James’ face.

“Harry,” he manages to say in a gasp, whilst trying to block the oncoming attack. He raises his fists above his face, nose and lip already bleeding, and pushes Harry off him. “What the Hell is wrong with you, man?”

“Me? What’s wrong with me?” Harry’s voice is a shout, partially slurred. “You just helped put a man behind bars for the rest of his life. And there’s something wrong with me?”

“Clane Malik deserved what he got,” he says, spitting blood out on to the floor and wiping his nose. “You know that, you goddamn know that, Harry. Look at the way he treated Zayn, the way he treated everyone.”

“And what about Zayn? Huh? Did Zayn deserve this? Did he deserve this pain?”

“ _You’re_ the one that put him in it.”

“I tried to stop it!” Harry leans against the edge of the cupboard behind him. “I tried to stop it. But you just couldn’t let it go. You had my own wife take those notes from my office and give them to you. And you took them and you wrote them and… and you gave them to him. You hate me that much that you’d rather see Zayn in pain to get back at me. Did Zayn deserve that?”

“No,” he says, “he didn’t. But you did. You deserve this.”

“You are the reflection of Andrew, I see it now. He’s made you his fucking shadow, his puppet, his dead fucking son,” Harry spits. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About Boss’ family, what Clane did. Did you know he was the one who killed Zayn’s family?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know before or after they got arrested?”

James pauses, eyes flickering with hesitance before he mutters, “Before.”

“You son of a bitch,” Harry yells and lunges for him again.

This time, James dodges his attack and forces his fist into the crevice of Harry’s jaw. Harry stumbles back before pushing himself into James, and the both land on the floor. He finds his knees and balances himself and hits James again, and again, and again, and his head hits the floor with a thud. James’ eyes roll back in his head and come around again.

“You did that to him. You had Zayn arrested, had everything taken away from him, by the man who murdered his family, and you helped him do it,” Harry’s voice is a roar. “All because you wanted to get back at me. How vile can you be?”

“Harry—” James begins, but is cut off again by Harry’s fist.

“You were supposed to be his friend, you were the only one he had,” Harry’s voice breaks. “He had me, but you took every chance you could to turn him against me.”

“He deserves someone better,” James splutters out.

“Like who? He has no one, and it’s your fault.”

James grabs his hands to stop the blow. “You are just to blame for this as I am.”

Harry laughs; he truly laughs. “I wrote some childish little comments on a piece of paper. You”— Harry jabs at his nose, and James groans — “you made sure his father won’t ever see anything but a prison cell for the rest of his life, and you made sure Zayn had everything he held close to him, decent or fucked up, destroyed. Me, his father… We might not have been the best, but we were all he had. And you’ve taken it away from him. This is your fault, Hoyden.”

James shoves Harry off him and scurries to his feet, Harry following after. He cups his nose. “You’ve broke my fucking nose. 

“Where is he?” Harry asks.

James takes a napkin from the table and wipes his bloody nose. “Far away from you.”

“James, where is he? Is he here?”

“No, he’s not. He’s visiting his family.”

Harry frowns. “His family?”

“At the graveyard, Harry.” He rolls his eyes. “He left about an hour ago.”

“What graveyard?”

“Harry, don’t go interrupting him. He’s visiting his famil—”

“I didn’t ask for your moral advice, Hoyden. You haven’t got any room to lecture me. What graveyard?”

“Down on 41st.”

For good measure, Harry hits James in the nose when he isn’t expecting it, and James falls back and knocks the lamp off the side table.

Harry glances at James’ wife and sighs. “Katherine, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. But your husband is a son of a bitch.” 

“I know,” she says, “but I’d like you to leave my house now, please.”

“I will.” He nods and looks back down to James. “If you come near Zayn or me again, I will put you in the hospital. Do you understand?” When he’s silent, Harry kicks him. “James.”

“Yes,” he hisses. “Then you better go get his stuff from upstairs. I’ve had enough of a beating for one day.”

“His things?”

“I gave him a few of my old clothes, little knick-knacks. He’s keeping them in the spare room.”

His mind jumps to a thought as he’s reminded of the spare room in his own house; the room that until a few weeks ago homed his unfaithful, duplicitous wife.

“My wife is pregnant,” Harry says.

James stops fussing with his nose and looks to him, wide-eyed and paling. He glances back at his wife, who remains quiet. “What?”    

“Oh, you don’t know? I thought you did.” He shrugs, this facetious incision pricking at his humour. “Just thought you could utilise the spare room for the new one. You’ll need the space.”

Harry leaves the room as Kate looks to her husband with a parted mouth, with James sitting on the floor, grimaced eyes glaring at Harry, as he leaves the room and takes the stairs two at a time to get to the top.

He checks each room, not knowing which one is which, and comes to a halt at the second to last door as it opens wide without him even touching it. Helena stands on the other side of the door with an alarmed expression on her face. In her silk gown, Harry can see now her enlarged belly protruding from the fabric, her hand resting over the bump, and wonders how James hasn’t noticed it yet.

“Harry,” she whispers.

“Have you been here since you left home?” Harry asks, before reiterating, “my house.”

“Yes.”

Harry looks around her, back into the room with two beds, two sides of the room obviously parted by the change in furniture: one side has a vanity full of perfumes and cosmetics, a pink gown hanging over the chair, floral print bedding and frilly cushions; the other side blank like an unpainted canvas, with only a small box sat beside the bed on the floor.

“You’ve been sharing a room with Zayn?” Harry asks, laughing to himself at the irony of the situation. He pushes himself past Helena and walks into the room, skimming his fingers over the bedding where he knows Zayn has been sleeping. “I wonder how that’s been for you.”

“Excruciating,” she mutters. “He cries, a lot, tries to hide it at night but the house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. No doubt that’s your fault, so I’ll blame you for my annoyance. He’s like a baby, pisses me off.”

“You’ll have to get used to it once you pop that one out.” He points to her swelling belly. “How far along are you?”

“Five months.”

“And what are you going to do when you give birth? Stay here, with James and his wife?” He scoffs.

“He’s going to leave her,” she says. “He will.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”

Helena swallows her lips, before replying, “You left me for _him_ , why wouldn’t James do the same for me?”

“Because James is a coward, and I…” He pauses, blinking, his throat closing in. “I love Zayn.”

“You love him and yet you hurt him, make him cry himself to sleep every night.”

Harry swallows. The thought of Zayn sat alone in this room, crying until his eyes are sore and his head hurts, lay across from the woman who helped all of this happen, under the roof of the man who _made_ it happen, repulses him.

“We tend to hurt the ones we love the most,” he says, voice strained.

“Are you saying James doesn’t love me?” she asks.

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what James feels. All I’m saying is it will be awkward with you staying here while his wife sleeps with him in the next room.”

“You did the same to me for months,” she argues.

“Zayn wasn’t pregnant.”

“That’s not the point, is it?” She falsely chuckles. “Besides, she doesn’t know it’s mine.”

“Well, she does now.”

Helena stares at him, confused, eyes hinted with caution. “What?”

“I just told her.”

Her mouth opens in dismay. “Why would you do that? You had to come here and spoil things, didn’t you? You had to make things more complicated.”

“I think you’re the one who made it more complicated when you opened your legs for a married man and got yourself pregnant. But don’t take my word for it,” Harry mutters. “Besides, after everything you’ve done to me, to Zayn, it’s hardly the cherry on top, is it?" 

He grabs the box from the floor and turns to leave the room when Helena’s hand on his bicep halts his tracks.

“Harry,” she whispers close to his ear. “You don’t have to do this. I could come back home. We could put all of this behind us. We could still be a family.”

Harry looks to her as the audacity sweeps into every line, every flaw, of her face. And as he looks closer into her eyes and her skin and the small, hopeful flicker of a smile on her lips, he sees hardly anything of the woman he knew before, of his wife. Instead a version much uglier, more repulsive, takes her place.

He looks her up and down and carefully retracts her hand from his arm. “There is no reconciliation available for grabs here, Helena.”

“Harry—”

“You fucked the man who hates me for years, let him impregnate you. You tried to ruin the man I love, the man who loves me. How can I forgive you for that?”

“You could find it in your heart.” She attempts to reach out for him again, but Harry declines her.

“No, I can’t,” he denies. “My heart no longer has a place for you. It’s all for him, it’s all for Zayn.”

Helena’s eyes swell with tears and she shakes her head, whispering a ‘no’ to herself under her breath. She calls Harry’s name as he leaves the room, but the box feels so safe and right in his arms, like he has a part of Zayn tucked away between his grasp, that he doesn’t pay attention to her, or the arguing of James and his wife as he passes the living room and walks out of the front door.

He zones out until he’s back in his car parked around the corner and he’s taking one of the shirts from the box and bringing it to his nose to try and get a glimmer of Zayn’s scent between the woven fabric. And he catches it, only just; the soft jasmine imprinted onto the fabric from Zayn’s skin, the scent of the wash that sits in Harry’s bathroom, the one he’s been using for weeks to remind himself of what the room smelt like after Zayn showered. Harry looks back into the box and finds the same bottle of jasmine body wash sitting at the bottom, the accompanying lotion from the set that Harry bought him for his birthday.

 _He must have been back to the house,_ Harry thinks—the day everything happened. He was in too much of a state to even realise anything had been missing, but he knows it’s the only time Zayn would have been there. Even in complete intoxication or the deepest sleep, Harry would wake up in the presence of Zayn, he knows he would. He feels too strongly for the man for his company to go unnoticed, to not feel the pull he feels like a magnet towards him that’s brought them together since the day they met.

His mind feels too sober, too aware of the gaping hole in his chest that only Zayn can patch up, and he begins to cry. He cries hard, harder still as he remembers with each memory that digs deeper than the last. Hot tears and ugly crying and a dripping nose and these sobs that rack his chest and make his ribs feel like they’re trembling.

He misses Zayn, so much that he’s afraid his heart might give up; like he is perpetually sick, his lungs filled with poison, and Zayn is the antidote that he’s gone too long without, and every second that goes by he decays a little more.

As he pushes to the bottom of the box, Harry finds his notes; the notes that ruined everything, the ones etched in his name. He reads along, skipping past the majority of his words and stopping when the style changes and he realises it’s James’ handwriting.

Harry scoffs and raises a hand to cover his mouth as he reads. Zayn was right; it’s _detailed._ From descriptions of Clane and Zayn, depictions of them that are far from favourable—from gutter rats with awful hygiene, to sleazy boozer alcoholics, Zayn being alien, a cowardly dog who needs to be disciplined, mocking and belittling him for his anxiety, a goddamn _sodomite_ , shaming him for it.

Even far down the line, detailed descriptions of the men who Clane did business with down in Maryland, what they look like, where they’re from—there’s pages and pages of words, and James wrote all this.

In the whole five months that he was told to report on, Harry only wrote one page—the page at the beginning which is full of light, whimsical words compared to those that follow on the pages after.

God, no wonder Zayn hates him, believing that he wrote all this. How could he? How could he think Harry would write all this about him? He loves the man with all his heart for Christ’s sake—not that Zayn fucking knows that because that’s just one more think he managed to fuck up, too.

Where ever he is, Zayn believes Harry wrote these things, and by God he’ll he damned if he lets him think for another moment that it’s true.

Harry pushes the box to the side, keeping the shirt in his hands tucked into his lap, folding the notes into his pocket, and turns on the engine. He drives faster than he should down to the graveyard, parking the car and trying to compose his sniffles and his tears as he walks through the iron gate.

It takes him half an hour to find Zayn, past the many rows of tombstones and sanctuaries. He’s knelt on to the grass, facing a tombstone. As Harry walks closer, he hears Zayn mumbling names and confessions between occasional sobs and sniffles of his own.

Harry wakes until it falls quiet, until Zayn has calmed and his words are done, with only the harsh wind around them to keep the silence at a distance.

“Zayn,” he says softly.

Zayn’s head prods to the side and his back straightens out defensively, but he doesn’t turn around.

As Harry steps closer, he sees the imprint of the name _Vivienne Malik_ cast on the stone, and another name below it that he can’t decipher. His heart squeezes in his chest. “Zayn, I—”

“You’re interrupting me, here of all places?” Zayn says, voice gravelly.

“I needed to speak to you. I needed to see you,” he says, placing the box down beside Zayn. “I’ve wanted to see you since the day you left, but I thought you might need space.”

“And what makes you think I’ve had enough space now?”

“I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m dying here, Zayn.” He sorrowfully laughs. “I had to see you.”

He looks down to the box beside him, his whole face a scowl. “Why do you have my things?”

“I went to James’ house and got them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you staying there, Zayn, I told you. Not with him.”

“So, you think I should come back with you? Stay with you, instead?” Zayn half-heartedly scoffs. “I’m no better off with you.”

“Of course you are,” he says, brows knitted. “You’re better off with me than in a house with James and his wife. And sharing a room with Helena? I know you don’t want to do that, you must hate it.”

“Yes, I do. But you haven’t given me much choice on the matter, have you?”

Zayn stands to his feet and kisses the tombstone, whispering an ‘ _I love you_ ’ under his breath before stepping away.

“I’ve never seen you come here before,” Harry say.

“It’s the only place my father would allow me to come. I forgot to visit for a while, too wrapped up in you. Look where that got me,” he mutters.

He finally turns around and looks to Harry, and, _God_ , Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt more relieved to see a face in his life. And although Zayn looks tired, dark eyed and worn down, and the weary anger still prominent in his face as he looks over to where Harry is stood, it’s like walking out of the war all over again and being told they’ve finally won. Just seeing his face sends a spark of happiness through to every muscle and bone of Harry that no one else has the ability to do.

“Hi,” Harry weakly whispers.

Zayn looks him up and down. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” he replies. “In fact, the way I look probably isn’t sufficient enough to show how I feel.”

Zayn raises his arms and drops them again, sighing. “Why are you here, Harry?”

“I wanted, I _needed_ , to see you, I’ve told you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeats, shifting his eyes around everywhere they can reach before looking back to Zayn, who waits patiently. “I need to explain things to you, to tell you what’s been going on.”

“You’ve already explained it to me.”

“I have, some parts of it.” He pulls the notes from his pocket and displays them so Zayn can see. “I found them in the box, and I’ve read them. Zayn… these aren’t my notes. These are Ja—” 

“They’re James’, I know,” he interrupts. “I noticed the handwriting.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“The day after everything happened. I asked James if it was true and he confirmed that he’d wrote them. I think he’s slept with one eye open since, afraid I’ll murder him in his sleep,” he jokes, though there’s no humour.

“And you still hate me?” Harry asks, his mouth grimacing just saying the words, fearing the response.

Zayn shakes his head. “I told you once that I could never despise you. That is still true. I don’t hate you, I never did.”

Harry’s face relaxes, though he remains tense. “What about forgiveness? Is that still off the table?”

“No,” he says, shrugging. “Truth be told, I think I forgave you when I first read it all, when I first thought you’d wrote all of those notes. When I was stuck in that jail cell, alone. I think I forgave you back then.”

“Then what was all that about in the park?”

“I was angry, heartbroken. Can you blame me?”

No, no I can’t.” Harry looks down to the floor, shaking his head. “I’m ashamed, Zayn. I’m so ashamed for not telling you. I’ve drunk myself into a hole the past month trying to forget what I’ve done, forget that you weren’t there.”

“That’s not my fault,” Zayn says defensively.

“I know it’s not. I’m just giving you an update,” he says.

He hears the rustling of the box be taken into Zayn’s arms and the footsteps that come towards him. Harry looks up to the floor just as Zayn is walking past him.

“Zayn, wait,” he says, his palm tingling he grabs Zayn’s arms and creates the first contact they’ve had in weeks. “Don’t walk away from me, not again.”

Zayn stills, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “I don’t need this right now, Harry, I don’t.”

“I know you don’t, but I want to resolve this. I want everything to be okay between us.”

He glances back at Harry with a scowl. “Do you think it’s that easy?”

“No, fuck, I”— He huffs — “of course I don’t. But it’s a start. Me, here, apologising to you again.”

“I haven’t heard an apology.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Zayn pulls out of his grip. “I heard you the first time.”

“Good. And I want you to be able to hear me say it again, and again, and again, and I want you to be there, so I can make it up to you. But I can’t do that when you’re living on the other side of town with the man who played a much bigger part in this than I did,” Harry says.

“He did so much more, Harry, so much more. And yet you hurt me the most of all.” Zayn’s his eyes turn wet at the rims as he turns around slightly to face him.

“I know I have, baby,” Harry says softly. “I’m trying to make it up to you.”

He places his cold hand on to Zayn’s cheek, and he falls into the touch. It makes Harry gasp at the reminder of how delicate and smooth his skin feels when sliding along his own. He wants to sink into it, drown into the touch because it’s been _so long_ and he feels like he’s finally being watered. But just as he leans further into the hold, readjusts so he can hold more of Zayn in his arms, Zayn moves away.

“It’s too soon,” he whispers.

“No,” Harry says desperately quick. “No, it’s not. We can work this out, we can.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

 _Why are you apologising to me?_ Harry wants to ask, but he’s distracted when the contact between them is broken and Zayn begins to walk away. He stands there for a moment, two, as he watches Zayn leave without him again. But the fire in his bones kicks in, and his lips turn thin, and this heart-clenching anger wraps around him.

“No,” he says, following with rushed footsteps. “No, Zayn. Don’t walk away from me again. Don’t you _dare_.”

“I already am,” he hears Zayn say weakly.

“So, you’re just going to give up? I’m here, trying to make things right, and you’re going to give up?” his voice becomes a shout, seeming louder when all he gets in return is silence. “Zayn Malik, you stubborn man, I will not let you walk away from me again. You won’t. I’m not letting you leave me again.”

All Zayn does is glance back behind his shoulder and he continues, walking down the worn-away grass path and heading towards the iron gate exit.

Harry watches, his footsteps slowing down as he feels this fizz of hope, he didn’t know had sparked, sizzle away until it threatens to be nothing but the aftertaste of smoke.

And as there’s more distance between them, as Zayn’s appearance becomes a blur in Harry’s welling eyes, there’s these words on his tongue that are a bitter pill as it dissolves, making him feel as though he needs to spit them out. And he realises, when he can no longer hear Zayn’s footsteps or his deep breathing, that he’s got nothing left to lose. 

“I love you!” Harry confesses, voice raising over the lines of graves and stones to get to him. “Zayn, I love you.” 

Zayn’s steps falter and he slowly turns around. He has this fierce look on his face, nostrils flared, jaw tight, heavy breaths, Harry can tell even from here.

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t you dare do that. Don’t you dare say that to me, Harry. How could you?” 

“I love you, don’t you believe me?” he asks, closing the proximity between them as Zayn stands like stone.

“No.” 

Harry’s heart stops in his chest. He supposes it’s only fair if Zayn vindictively breaks his heart, considering how he broke Zayn’s. Perhaps it would give them a clean slate, a new balance where they could make this work, despite everything they’ve been through—everything Harry has done. 

Either way, this is what he feared would happen from the beginning. He’s like a goddamn psychic. 

He takes a step closer to Zayn with softened, glistening eyes. “I know you don’t mean that. I love you. I love you more than I think I’ve ever loved anyone.” 

His eyes become this battle between affliction and care. “Stop it, Harry. That’s not fair. That’s not fucking fair!” 

“Don’t you love me?” Harry asks, heart in his throat. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

Zayn’s lip quivers; in anger and in hurt and in dismay. “Of course I do. You know that I do.”

“I’ve loved you since the night we met, since you let me pull you into that bed and you held me, without complaint when I was afraid,” Harry tells, with sincerity and ardour practically dripping from his words. “I’ve loved you since I brought you home and you accidentally met my wife, who, you’re right, I had no intention of introducing you to because I wanted you all to myself. I’ve loved you since you told me about your father, and you made me see how much of myself is in you, how similar and compatible we are. I’ve loved you since I took you to that meadow, since I saw you truly for the first time.” 

“Harry, please,” Zayn pleads. His face cracks into an expression of anguish that Harry knows he’s caused. 

But he can’t stop there. He has to say this because it’s been festering on his chest for weeks and clogging him up and making him feel like he can’t breathe. And now he has the chance to finally say it.

“I loved you especially that night at Ellen’s, where you looked so at peace and at home in my arms, and you made me feel like I belonged, you made me see. I’ve loved you since you gave yourself to me completely, and I gave myself to you, and you didn’t even know it. I’ve loved you since you saved my soul from damnation that night at the bar, and your father practically ripped my heart out of my chest when he beat you, and I didn’t know whether you’d make it or not, if I could save you.” 

“Why are you doing this, Harry?” Zayn asks, holding back his sobs. 

His welling eyes finally leak, and a tear streaks down the crimson of his cheek, mixing with the small patters of rain that now fall from the sky. His body is curled in and afraid and subjugate to the pain Harry knows he’s feeling, as his hand raises to clutch his chest, just over his heart. 

The lump in Harry’s throat has him choking out this sound, like his soul is on his tongue, as his own tears fall. Look at what he’s done, look at what he’s done to the one person who would have sacrificed everything if Harry had just asked him to. Instead, Harry had to steal it from him and destroy everything in the process. 

Harry walks the rest of the way towards him, and this time Zayn doesn’t object. 

“I have loved you so selfishly and in all the wrong ways, but I have loved you every day between and every day since, in the only way I know.” Harry reaches up his hand to stroke Zayn’s cheek. “I know I’m to blame for what’s happened, and I won’t ever forgive myself for it. And I don’t know what I’m going to do with all these shambles, I don’t know where to start. But I’m hoping, praying, that I can at least start with you.” 

Zayn falls into the touch with a sigh. His eyes flutter closed and back open, his tears calling Harry’s name as he wipes them away with the pad of his thumb.

“You are so infuriating, Harry. So, so infuriating.” Zayn weakly hits Harry’s chest, before he lets his head fall onto it. 

Harry wraps his arms around him. His strong and broken darling. “I know I am. But I don’t want you to give up on me. You’re all I have.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“It is.” 

“It’s not.” Zayn lifts his head, torn eyes and furrowed brows staring at him. “You have a house and far too many possessions, a job, a wife, friends, a profession. You have everything, Harry.” 

“You’re right and you’re wrong,” he says. “I left my wife, as you know. I have a profession, that’s true. I have a job, but not the one I had before but a better one. I couldn’t stand to work for the bastard who had the family of the man I love killed in cold blood.” Zayn’s arms squeeze tighter around Harry’s waist. “And you’re right, I have a house and far too many possessions, but they mean nothing if I can’t share them with you. They mean nothing if I don’t have you.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes back in a groan and wipes the tears from his face. “Why do you have to do that?” 

“Do what?” Harry suppresses his smile, the first genuine smile in a month.

“You know how to hit right here.” Zayn points to his heart. “And I don’t want you to. I hate that you know me like that, that I let you in that way.” 

“Well, you’re wrong and you’re wrong,” Harry says, brushing a tendril of Zayn’s hair back on top of his head as it falls. “I snook my way into your heart and didn’t ask for approval.” 

“Like a crook.” 

“Like a bloody crook,” he agrees. “I saw something shiny and I couldn’t help myself.”

“Wait,” Zayn says, “you don’t have the same job?”

“No. I quit as soon as I learnt of what my boss had done. Well, I suppose he fired me, but I quit first. It still counts.” 

“That son of a bitch,” Zayn grumbles, sniffling.

“But I got a better job,” Harry’s says. “One working for Tarol. I’m the head of a whole department now.”

“Oh, how fancy.”

“You know the best part?” He risks leaning down to kiss Zayn’s cheek, who’s breath hitches at the touch. Harry’s chest blooms. “I’m James’ new boss.”

“Oh, he’ll despise that,” Zayn says.

Harry hums. “I’m also the boss of my old boss—Boss.”

“Right.”

“I had him fired.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I explained to Tarol how abominably he’d acted, I explained the whole thing to him, leaving out some parts, of course. He told me he’d have Boss fired, make sure he doesn’t get another job in this state again, or any other state, I imagine, once his reputation is sullied.” When Zayn stays silent, Harry frowns. “What? I thought you’d be pleased by this.”

“Why would I be?”

Harry blinks, looking at him as if it’s obvious. “He killed your family, Zayn.”

“I know he did,” he softly bites. “But he has a family, too. Is it right if we put a family through the same things that happened to me?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “God, can you stop being such a good, kind-hearted person for one second?”

“No.”

“It’s for everyone’s own good, and he’s getting what he deserves.” He sighs. “Think of the next family he would have chosen to do this to. Did they deserve it?”

Begrudgingly, Zayn says, “No.”

“Right. He’s getting what he deserves. Justice is being served.”

“And what about— “ 

“Zayn,” Harry interrupts with a fond smile. “I’m not here to talk about my future.” 

Zayn eyes awkwardly shuffle around before landing back on Harry. “Then, what are you here for?” 

“Well, for _our_ future. Hopefully.”  

Zayn inhales a sharp breath. Chest puffed out, eyebrows raised, taken off guard. “Do you think it’s that easy? That everything has just been forgotten?”

“Of course not, I know it hasn’t,” Harry replies. He takes Zayn’s hand and kisses it, keeping it in a hold between his fingers. “I know there’s a lot to redeem myself for, a lot. But I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you if that’s what you request of me. And I don’t want to waste any time, not even today.” 

There’s a trice in time, as Zayn’s eyes lock onto Harry’s in this potion of devotion and love, where the world feels as though it’s stopped; as though they’ve found a crack in the dimension of gravity and they fall through it and they keep one another afloat with nothing but their gaze and the touch of their palms as their skin becomes one. 

 _It’s like magic_ , Harry thinks, like those magicians Zayn has talked about before. 

“You’re really sorry?” Zayn asks.  

The hope in his voice makes Harry’s heart flutter with a chance of redemption. “Yes, with all of me. Every fibre of my being seeks your forgiveness, and it’ll be restless until it gets it.” 

"My head is screaming at me to run from you, but my heart is cementing me to the ground.” Zayn suspires.

"Which one are you going to listen to?” 

Zayn shrugs. “I don’t know. Look at where my heart has already led me.” 

Harry swallows nervously. “I’ve followed my heart. It’s gotten me in shit, but I don’t want to give up. I’m not giving up. The heart makes mistakes sometimes, but it’s always true.” 

“I don’t want you to hurt me again, Harry.” 

 _Oh, baby_. He pierces his lips. “I won’t tell you that I won’t. It seems to be in my nature. I’m a fool that does foolish things. But I’ll try my hardest not to hurt you. I don’t ever want to intentionally hurt you.”

“You’ll try?” 

“I’m only human, Zayn, it’s the best I can do. But it will be my absolute best. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“Okay.”

Harry grins. “Okay?”

“Yes, okay.”

“So, does this mean you’ll come home with me, and not go back to that dickhead’s house and stay in a room with my bitch of an ex-wife?”

“Ex-wife,” Zayn says, humming. “It sounds strange hearing you say that.”

“I know. We’ll get used to it.”

“I hope so.”

“I have to admit, this isn’t the way I expected this to go,” Harry says.

“I’m surprised, too.”

“I half-thought you were going to hit me.”

“I half-planned to,” he says, and they both laugh.

“Well, I would have deserved it, and more.”

“I still think you’re a good man, Harry. You’ve just done a completely moronic thing.”

“How can you think I’m a good man, even after all of this?” he asks.

“I see the good in all people. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

Harry looks down to him with adoring eyes. “You are too good for this world,” he says softly.

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true.” He strokes Zayn’s cheek that calls his name. “Your soul is too pure, and the world is too corrupt.”

Zayn coyly grins. “Ever the flatterer.”

“You know me, better than anyone.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, leaning closer to Harry, “I do.”

He takes a second of selfish desire to inhale Zayn’s scent, to smell the jasmine that seems so much purer on his skin than on the clothes in the box below them. Their noses brush, Harry’s fingers twiddling with Zayn’s ear and pushing into his hair. 

“This has grown,” he says huskily.

“I know.”

“Do you want me to cut it again?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it when we get home. I’d you’ll come with me.”

Zayn hums, puckering his lips. “Well, I suppose I haven’t got anywhere better to go.”

Harry smiles wide. “You’ll come back with me?”

“Yes.” Zayn grins back.

“You’ve lightened my entire day, just now. And it was dreary before.”

“Then, I guess it’s good you came to see me.”

“Oh, yes, it was a very good thing. Best decision I’ve made in a while, and I haven’t made many good ones.” He leans their foreheads together and brushes the tip of Zayn’s nose with his, and he hears Zayn make the quietest of gasps. “Zayn.”

“Harry,” he says in a sigh.

“May I kiss you?”

Zayn smiles this wide grin that infects Harry’s lips, too. “When have you ever asked me?”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

His smile dims. “Before I ruined everything.”

Zayn brings his hand up to Harry’s face and holds him. “You didn’t ruin everything.”

“Those are your exact words.”

“I was angry. I didn’t actually mean it.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Harry says.

Zayn bites his lip, fluttering his eyelashes in that way that threatens to bring Harry to his knees, before he leans up on his tiptoes and gently, so so gently, lands his lips on Harry’s.

Harry’s arms around his waist tighten, pull him closer at the contact as he moans into it, pours himself into the simple touch wholeheartedly. God, he’s missed this so much, _so much_ , that it physically hurts him to think about pulling away. But he must. He doesn’t want to rush into this, he doesn’t want to do this wrong—not again.  

He moves away, regretting it with every part of him when Zayn follows his lips instead of pulling away, too. It makes him greedy for more, knowing Zayn has missed him in this way, in every way, just like he has missed Zayn.

“I got this for you,” he says, digging his hand into his pocket and pulls out the thin piece of paper and holding it between them.

When Zayn sees what it is, his eyes swell like pennies and he snatches it from Harry’s hand. He stares down at it, tracing his finger over the photo, before looking up to Harry with glossy eyes.

“How did you get this? I thought it was gone forever,” he chokes out, shocked.

“I broke in to the speakeasy, picked up anything I could find there. Your savings, a few books, a strange looking tie,” he tells. “I didn’t want you to lose them, and I thought if there was anyway I could get them back, I would. Even if it meant resorting to breaking and entering.”

Zayn smashes back into Harry to kiss him—deeply this time, desperately, with such a mutual adoration between them that the world around them melts away. Harry clutches him to his chest, not letting him go this time, as their tongues find one another and dance in fervour and… _love._

He’s missed seeing Zayn’s lips so plump and juicy from his kisses, so red and swollen from his passion. He rubs his thumb across Zayn’s bottom lip as they pull away in a pant.

“I love you,” Zayn says, breathless, and knocks the air out of Harry’s own lungs at the words. “Harry, I love you.”

“I love you, Zayn.”  

He gasps. “Say it again. Please.”

“I love you,” he repeats, kissing his cheeks, his nose, somewhere different each time as he says, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“That sounds so perfect,” Zayn says in a moan.

“I should have told you sooner.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“But I didn’t know myself, I didn’t understand what I felt, not until you left and it all came crashing down on me,” he explains. He combs his fingers through Zayn’s hair. “Now I know, and there isn’t a day that will go by that I won’t say it. If you’ll let me, of course.”

Zayn pecks his lips. “I won’t ever deny you saying those words to me.”

He smiles. “Good, because I plan to say them a whole lot, and hear them a whole lot more.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“It will be.” He kisses Zayn again, not able to keep himself still in his hold for one moment. “Shall we go home?”

Zayn cocks his head to the side. “Home?”

“Yes. My home, which is your home, too, if you’ll take it,” he says, eyes turned hopeful.

The idea of Zayn coming home with him, sleeping in the bed next to him tonight, eating breakfast with him in the morning… Oh, it seems so heavenly, so divine in comparison to the nightmarish hole he’s been living in. He can’t help the burst of hope inside his veins, and that trickle of sting in the bridge of his nose as his eyes well up at the thought.

“I don’t know, Harry…”

 _What? No._ “Are you telling me you’d rather stay with James? Sleep in the same room as Helena?”

He grimaces in this side-lipped way, as if the thought of it repulses him, as if he’s begrudging to admit it. “No, I don’t want to share a room with your wife.”

“Ex-wife,” he corrects.

“But… Harry, the wound is still fresh.” He sighs. “I don’t want things to go wrong again, I don’t want to rush into something and get hurt.”

“You won’t. You won’t, baby,” he promises. “This, anything like this, won’t happen again. I’ve made that mistake once already. And we already have such a good foundation to work on.”

“You broke my heart, Harry, that isn’t a good foundation.”

“But I’m trying to mend it, to fix it,” he says. “And we have love, we have a lot of love, and a home, and I have a job. That’s already so much more than anyone else I know has. We could make this work, if you wanted it to. I don’t know about you, but I want it to work. With all of me, I want this to work out.”

“I do want it to work,” he agrees, nodding. “But there is _so much_ work to be done, so much healing.”

“And what is a relationship without building? What is it, if we aren’t making mistakes and growing and learning about one another in every way? No relationship is perfect.”

“I’m sure most relationships don’t start or end this way.”

“No, you’re right. But do you want to be like most relationships? So mundane and boring.”

“We’re two men, Harry, and we fuck each other. I’m sure we aren’t like most relationships already.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Not like that’s happened in a while, anyway.” When Zayn gives him _those_ eyes, he laughs. “It’s a joke, darling. I know it’s too soon.”

Zayn hums. “Right.”

“Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“Sex. Our sex. Did you miss my body?”

He chokes out a surprised laugh. “You can’t ask me that.”

“But I just did.”

Zayn coyly smiles and looks down, glancing back up with tinting cheeks. He bites his lips, saying quietly, “Yes, I have.”

“Good. Because if I stood here and said I missed every inch of you and you didn’t miss me at all then I’d look like a fool.”

“You already are a fool, Harry.”

“Yes,” he says, so softly and lovingly, “I am. I’m your fool.”

He takes Zayn’s lips in his, kissing him as though his lungs depend on the touch to be able to breathe. When he feels that _twitch_ against his trousers—because the horny bastard can’t fucking help himself, he’s been without the smallest of touches for weeks—and Zayn’s hand comes up into his hair, he pulls away, fearing they’ll start something he doesn’t think he’ll have the strength to pause once it goes too far. (Harry hasn’t ever had sex in a graveyard, and he doesn’t think he wants to now.)

“So, are you going to come home with me?” he asks, pulling away.

Zayn licks the moisture off his plumped lips, looking dazed. “What?”

Harry chuckles. “Are you going to come home with me? I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a mess. I think I lost my sanity at one point and broke everything.”

“Judging by the state of you, I believe that,” Zayn says as he steps back and looks Harry up and down. He picks the box back up and tucks it into his arm. “I suppose we’ll have to clean it all up.”

“Perhaps you can help me pick out the new furniture, make it your house, too.”

Zayn takes Harry’s hand in his with a meek smile. “I’d like that.”

Harry kisses the back of Zayn’s hand as they begin to walk. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

“As long as the furniture isn’t too expensive.”

“Zayn, I have plenty of money. You can pick whichever furniture you’d like, you don’t have to worry about the price tag. Plus, I’ll be making double, _triple_ , that I did before at my new job.”

“Like you need any more money.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“That just means I have more to spend on you.”

“I don’t want you to spend all your money on me.”

“Well, that’s tough. Comes with me, I’m afraid. I want to spoil you.”

“Can you just promise me one thing?”

“What’s that?" 

Zayn stops walking, and Harry stands still beside him. There’s a sudden hesitance in his eyes, a faltering confidence that replaces the happiness that was just on his face.

“What is it, Zayn?”

He babbles with his mouth for a moment before speaking. “Promise me I won’t become another Helena.”

Harry frowns. “What? Darling—”

“Promise me I won’t just be a man who sits at home, waiting for his lover to return, whilst he’s out fucking some whore or meeting another man and falling in love on the other side of town.”

It’s understandable that Zayn would come to this conclusion, have this fear, Harry understands that. He knows men who go through women like they’re imported cigars. But that doesn’t mean that the implication off Zayn’s lips doesn’t insult him any less.

He shakes his head fiercely and brings Zayn’s other hand into his, kissing each one of his fingers. “Zayn, baby, I won’t I won’t do that. I—You may not believe me, not right away, but I’ll prove to you it’s not like that, not with you.”

Zayn bites his lips and looks away.

Harry places both of Zayn’s hands over his heart and takes his own hand to bring Zayn’s eyes back around to see him. “This is yours. This intricate, beating vessel is yours, no one else’s. I don’t think it will ever belong to anyone else, not now. You’ve stolen it completely and branded it with your name.”

“Harry.” He softly sighs.

“I love you, Zayn Malik. And that’s who you are. You’re not a whore or a flapper or any other man. You aren’t a Helena Kalleth. You’re Zayn Malik, the man that I love. There isn’t anyone else, anyone for me,” he says earnestly. 

“Your heart is beating fast,” Zayn whispers.

“It’s because of you.”

Zayn brings his hand to Harry’s cheek and brings them in closer, kissing him and letting go chastely. “I love you, Harry.”

“I love you, too. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

Harry smiles so wide that it latches on to Zayn’s mouth, too. “Good. Come on, then, let’s go home.”

When they get into Harry’s car, he turns to Zayn with gathered eyes. “I know your father is in jail, and he probably will be for a long time.”

“I know.” Zayn swallows, picking at his nails. “I probably won’t see him ever again, which is probably for the best.”

“If you wanted to see him, which I really don’t advise on and wouldn’t be happy with at all. But if you would like to see him, then I could see if I could figure something out. Maybe,” he pauses, as if it pains him to say it, “I could see if his sentence could be shortened, whatever it is.”

There’s a minute where they’re silent, where the only sounds are the quiet patter of rain and the passing cars on the street. Then Zayn looks up to him with this smile that makes Harry’s chest melt like butter under the sun.

He takes Harry’s hand. “No.”

“No?”

“I think my father deserves to serve his time,” he says. “We’re better off without him.”

“Yes, we are.” He grins and kisses Zayn’s hand, before starting the engine. “Don’t be alarmed when you see the mess. I’ve had a rough month.”

 

 • • XXIV •  •

 

 

“Well,” Zayn says, as Harry pushes the front door open and walks into the hallway. “I’m alarmed.”

“I made a lot of mess.”

Zayn kicks some of the broken mirror glass below him with his boot. “I can see that.”

Harry wraps his arm around Zayn’s waist from behind. “We don’t have to start cleaning it now. Are you hungry? I could make you some food. I’m sure there’s at least one plate I didn’t smash.”

“No,” he says, laughing. “I’m not hungry. I’m too emotionally confused to be hungry.”

“I hear you,” Harry says. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a thing other than burnt toast since you’ve been gone.”

Zayn hums, turning around in his hold, and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist. “You have lost weight, I can feel your ribs. I’ll feed you later.”

“You’ll feed me? Oh, how the tables have turned.”

“Well, if you aren’t going to feed yourself correctly, and judging by what you’ve told me about the extension of your culinary skills, then I’ll have to feed you, won’t I?”

“You’ll be here to feed me, yeah? You’re staying?”

Zayn pecks his lips. “Yeah. I suppose I can.”

“You know, come to—think of it,” Harry mumbles between Zayn’s lips, “I don’t—think there’s any—food— in the house.”

“No shopping?”

“No. I didn’t have any need to. I wasn’t actually eating anything, was I? Drinking, perhaps, but not eating.”

“Oh, angel,” Zayn mumbles ruefully, kissing his face all over, Harry soaking up every moment of it. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, baby. So, so much. S’like I couldn’t breathe without you.”

When their kiss deepens, Harry pushes him back to the wall, taking Zayn’s face in his palms, down his neck, over his chest as he takes in every part of the man he loves. His tongue twists over and over to elicit these sweet moans from Zayn’s mouth.

“I can still taste gin on your fucking tongue,” Zayn says, lapping his lips.

“I sobered up just before I met you,” he replies. “Beat the shit out of James.”

Zayn slides away. “You what?”

“It’s nothing he didn’t deserve. He could still stand, don’t worry. I didn’t think you’d want me to stoop that low, not again.”

“No,” he says, “James deserves it. I wouldn’t have objected.”

“Zayn Malik, you always surprise me.”

He nips at Harry’s jaw. “That’s the best part.”

“All of you is the best part.”

“Did you wreck the bedroom?”

Harry smirks against Zayn’s skin. “Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, thought we could ruin it now, together.”

“What happened to ‘ _too much, too soon’?_ ”

He shrugs. “When you’re touching me like this I can’t help myself.”

“Neither can I.”

Harry wraps Zayn leg around his waist, encouraging him to jump and twist his other leg around him. He carries them up the stairs in two’s, deciding the bed is too far away and pushes Zayn up the nearest wall as they enter the bedroom. He palms Zayn over his trousers, whilst their lips continue in these sloppy, tongue-filled, love-lavished kisses.

He pops the first button of Zayn’s shirt and kisses down his exposed neck. “Did you miss me here?”

“Yes,” he says in a pant.

Harry trails kisses down Zayn’s chest as he continues to unbutton his shirt, dropping the fabric to the floor. “Here?”

“Yes.”

He dips his head down Zayn’s naval, tickling the hairs that peak out through his trousers. “Here?”

“Oh, Harry. Yes,” he whines out, his hands delved into Harry’s hair. Zayn pulls him back up to his mouth. “But I want you here.”

Zayn turns them and pushes Harry all the way back to the bed. Harry falls back, his heels catching the end of the bedpost, and Zayn climbs on top of him. His dexterous fingers wind around Harry’s shirt and lift it over his head, peppering his chest with licks and kisses and moans. He pops Harry’s trousers open and kisses his growing cock from underneath his briefs.

“Baby,” Harry says, breathless, from above.

God, he didn’t expect this. If you’d asked him an hour ago where he thought they’d be, he wouldn’t have guessed in his lucky stars that they’d be here. He would have said alone, in a dark room with his self-pity and a bottle of aged whiskey, accompanied by another lonely night. Not here, with Zayn—the man he loves with all his fucking heart—between his legs, taking his pulsing cock between his tongue and his throat and gagging over him.

“Oh, fuck.” He moans, gripping tightly on to Zayn’s hair. “God, Zayn. You’re so amazing. So, so amazing.”

Zayn continues bobbing his head, twisting his mouth around Harry’s cock, and Harry tries his best not to thrust his hips up to Zayn’s mouth to push himself in deeper, to be closer to Zayn, to be more of one with him. Zayn moans over him, the vibrations sending these bolts of excitement down to the centre of his groin and building him up higher and higher, until feels that elation in the tip of his cock.

“God, baby, I’m cumming,” he manages to choke out before he releases himself into Zayn’s mouth, his tongue. Zayn swallows him greedily, and he hauls him back up to his chest to kiss him. “I can still taste myself on your tongue.”

Zayn moans. “Yeah?”

“Yes, I fucking love it.”

“Come here then,” Zayn whispers and dives his tongue back into Harry’s mouth.

Zayn slips out of his trousers and briefs with ease, dropping them to the end of the bed where they belong, and climbing back over Harry. Harry’s hand comes to stroke over Zayn’s cock, circling his lips anywhere they can reach; of his chest, the sensitivity of his nipples, his collarbones, his jaw. Zayn begins to rock them together and knocks Harry’s cock into a new tender hardness between his thighs with each thrust—readying him, loving him in a way he doesn’t ever want to stop.

This is his drug; his craving; the numbness and elation alcohol doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of; the satisfaction no nicotine could scratch the itch from as it resides in his throat. This is his happy ending—Zayn: his love, his lover, his sweetheart, his baby, his darling, his sun and moon and stars, his whole heart, his—

“Marry me,” Harry blurts out in this messy pant of intoxication and spontaneity.

As his thrusts stop, Harry squeezes his eyes closed and rests his head against Zayn’s chest.

“What?” Zayn asks, his voice high and soft and disbelieving.

Harry feels Zayn’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look up. “I asked if you’d marry me.”

“Harry.” Zayn sighs and falls off Harry’s lap. “Why’d you have to ruin the moment, huh?”

“I’ve ruined it?” he asks, finding Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn swallows his lips, puckering them, and shaking his head. “No. No you haven’t. But you just made it more complicated.”

“Complicated.”

“Yes,” he says. “You’ve turned this from mindless sex into a marriage declaration.”

“Mindless sex,” Harry repeats with drawn brows. “I thought, I _planned_ , on making love to you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” When Harry looks down, discouraged, Zayn brings his chin back up. “Did you mean what you said?”

“That I want you to marry me?” Zayn nods. “Of course I did. You’re the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I know it might be too soon to say that, but there’s just this… _surge_ of emotion flowing through me, a stream of love that you’ve caused. I couldn’t help but tell you. It just slipped out.”

“And when did you come to this realisation?”

“The second I realised I loved you.”

Zayn’s eyes turn as soft as honey. “You’re right, it is too soon. And not the best way to tell me, at all. You’re not even down on one knee.”

Harry widens his eyes. “I’ll get on my knees right now if you’ll say yes.”

He laughs. “I didn’t say that. Besides, you haven’t even got a ring.”

“You can wear my ring for now. We can go into the city in the week and get you a rin—”

“Harry,” he interrupts. “I’m not going to marry you. It’s far too soon.”

“You said that about fucking me and look where we are now.” He taps the end of Zayn’s cock.

Zayn swats him away, chuckling. “You know what I mean, Harry.”

He loses the small smile that had rose on his lips. “So, that’s a no to marriage?”

He nods. “It’s a no to marriage, especially when it’s exclaimed in the middle of sexual intercourse.”

Harry laughs and nods along, though his heart falls in his chest. “Right.”

He picks at the edges of his nails. Why does he act so fucking stupid sometimes? Asking Zayn to marry him after he sucked his cock—what did he think he was going to say? What did he think Zayn was going to do? Squeal and jump into his arms and say yes and take him into his mouth again to show him his happiness? He’s such a fool.

Zayn sighs and climbs back into his lap. “That’s not a no forever, you know.”

“Don’t just say that to make me feel better.”

“I’m not.” He pulls Harry’s face up, so their eyes meet. “I’m just saying, now isn’t the right time. I love you, Harry, I do, and I would love to spend every day for the rest of my life with you.”

Harry grimaces. “There’s a but here, somewhere.”

“ _But_ ,” Zayn begins with a smile, “after everything that’s happened it’s far too early to even _begin_ to think about things like that. We weren’t speaking hours ago, and now we’re in bed, and whilst that goes against the same thing I’ve just said, this makes sense. Marriage doesn’t right now.”

“So… it’s still no?”

“It’s still no. But it’s not a definite no. It’s not a forever no.”

Harry ponders for a moment before nodding. “I suppose I could live with that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’d love to get back to this.” He grabs Harry’s cock and shifts it between his hands with a wicked grin.

Harry moans and thrusts his hips up. “I’d like that, too.”

“Why is the whole house trashed except for the bedroom?” Zayn asks. “Still thinking with your dick, even in complete intoxication?”

He shakes his head. “No, you saved the room, I didn’t want to step a foot in here without you. I had nightmares, so many nightmares,” he says.

His lips are kissed so gently. “You don’t have to have anymore nightmares, okay? I’ll keep your dreams safe.”

“My angel,” Harry murmurs, stroking Zayn’s cheek.

He pouts. “That’s my nickname for you.”

“What’s mine is yours.”

“That doesn’t apply, Harry,” he lilts.

“Yet.”

“Is this the way it’s going to be now?” he asks. “You hinting at marriage every chance you get?”

“Yes, I might make a habit of it.”

Zayn leans over to the bedside table and grabs the small jar. He wriggles it between his fingers, giggling. “We meet again, old friend.”

“You’re so ridiculously cute,” Harry says fondly. “And sexy.”

“I know.” He tucks his fingers into the jar and rubs it across his ass, his thighs, over Harry’s cock as he strokes up and down and readies him. He positions himself correctly and slides himself down on to Harry’s cock, and they both gasp. “Oh, I missed this.”

“I missed you,” Harry mumbles, tucking himself into the crook of Zayn’s neck and biting down. “I missed you so much. I thought I’d die without you.”

“Oh, Harry,” he says, moaning, as he begins to move himself around. “I love you.”

“I love you. Zayn, baby, I love you.”

As Zayn rocks back and forth his moans become louder, higher pitched, and Harry can’t reign back his own generous moans at the pleasure he feels.

God, Zayn feels so good, so fucking good that it takes everything in Harry not to cum again so quickly. He has to push against the urge, fighting in a desperate attempt whilst Zayn mercilessly rides him, their thighs, their balls, making this awfully amazing sound as they hit against one another and elevate the sensation. Zayn’s moans seem like a song, a lullaby, to his ears the longer they go.

He’s holding Zayn close to him, his other hand pumping away at his cock in rhythm with their movements. He flicks his thumb over Zayn’s head and he whines out Harry’s name in this saccharine tone that makes him let go, makes him release into Zayn with a husky and heavy moan.

“God, baby,” he says, as Zayn continues to ride him through his high.

He looks up to see Zayn, his eyes scrunched, mouth parted and eliciting these whines that make Harry harden back up. He’s writhing in pleasure as he bounces on Harry’s cock and Harry brings his tongue, his mouth, down onto Zayn’s neck to lick away the film of sweat that’s forming on his skin. And it tastes so, so sweet, like honey and jasmine and Zayn.

Harry flips them around, so Zayn is underneath him and his hands are taken above his head in a possessive and lust-controlled move. He begins to move his hips hard, so he hits that deep and penetrative spot he knows makes Zayn squeal.

And he does; loud and clear, in declarations of Harry’s name and his love as it forms on his tongue in syllables that Harry greedily licks away.

“There’s no one to hear us, baby,” Harry pants, smirking against Zayn’s skin. “No one, not anymore. It’s just us. Just us from now on.”

“Thank fuck for that. I was getting tired of having to be quiet,” he says between moans. “Go faster, Harry.”

“I’m already going fast.” Harry chuckles, but speeds up the pace, holding Zayn’s body in the air as he pounds into him. “This good enough?”

“Faster.”

Harry cuts harder, thrusts lower, but it’s not enough, Zayn still willing him to go faster. _Greedy fucking man_.

He turns Zayn around on to his knees, pushing him down into the bed, and thrusts in fast and hard, and Zayn shouts out. He thrusts again, and again, and again and Zayn has to hold on to the headboard for balance as the bed moves fiercely with them.

Harry leans down, so his chest his flush with Zayn’s arched back. He reaches his hand over to stroke Zayn’s cock, to bring him closer, faster, because Harry can feel the pinch at the end of his cock again each time it hits Zayn’s border and he knows he isn’t going to last much longer.

“Harry,” Zayn gasps, “oh, Harry. Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop, I’m gonna— _Oh_.”

“Don’t leave me again,” Harry begs. “Please, don’t leave me again, baby.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “Angel, I won’t. I love you.”

He picks up the pace, this delicious burn in Harry’s thighs he knows will keep him bed-ridden, beside Zayn, all day tomorrow. And he feels the trickle of that delectable high that could only be found between Zayn’s legs, between his velvet touches and loving words, and he releases himself again, all of him, into Zayn.

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” he chants as he cums. “Zayn, I love you.”

He’s tired, he’s so tired, but he continues to move in sloppy thrusts to help Zayn reach his end, too. And he does; in dead silence and then one sublime, loud cry and a plethora of whines as his orgasm consumes him.

“Harry, oh, fuck,” he gasps, his hand winding round to Harry’s to find grip.

The bed finally falls still as they fall descend from their peaks, with Harry only thrusting gentle and slow, in and out of Zayn, to grab every part of his orgasm that he can before it fades away into dim affection. He sits up and rubs Zayn’s back, squeezes his hips, his arse, his thighs, just savouring every inch of this man’s body. He missed this so, so much—Zayn underneath like this, over him like before, inside his heart in every inexplicable way, this juicy comedown from their sex where all the lust is gone and the room is just filled with pure, crystalline love and adoration and affection.

This was worth it. All the heartbreak and the tears and the lies were worth it just for this moment, for all the moments to come like this, and all the other memories in between. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it up to Zayn, not yet, but he knows he will. In every possible, effable way he’ll make it up to this man. If he doesn’t, it’s his own heart in a blunder—he’s got nothing and yet everything to lose.

“You feel so good, baby,” Harry says.

Zayn mumbles in this sedated way that tickles at Harry’s heart, and he chuckles, finally slipping out of him and falling beside Zayn and just wrapping him in his arms.

“I love you.”

“I love you, Harry.” Zayn places sloppy kisses over his face. “I missed being ruined like this.”

Harry chuckles. “I missed ruining you. But I am completely spent, now.”

He hums in agreement. “I don’t think I could get up, not even to piss.”

“I’ll carry you if I must.” He kisses Zayn’s cold nose. “I’ll take care of you every which way you need me.”

Zayn hazily smiles. “Apart from our little hiccup, you really do treat me so good.”

“Of course I do, I love you with all my heart. I’ve loved you since we met, but I truly fell for you that night we made love for the first time.”

“Oh? Got a good fuck and fell in love?” he teases.

“No,” Harry softly censures. “Just seeing you that way, your willingness to give yourself to me, to open up and expose yourself. To be so vulnerable and let me in... it astounded me. You made me realise how much I’d already let you in, too, and it both terrified me and thrilled me.”

“New Year’s Eve for me,” Zayn says. He comes to lie his head on Harry’s chest, and Harry strokes his fingers through his dampened hair. “When you finally fucking kissed me. I think, no, I _definitely_ loved you before then, but that kiss sealed it. And if that didn’t the day in the meadow certainly did.”

Harry hums. “The day in the meadow. How could I forget? I remember thinking, even all the way back then, how sweet you were, and I decided I didn’t want anyone else’s cock in my mouth, _ever_ , if it wasn’t yours.”

“Well, you’ve lost your chance now, anyway,” Zayn says, looking up with a grin. “You’re only having me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He bites down on Zayn’s lip and pulls him in to kiss him. When Zayn’s hands begin to roam, and one slips down between Harry’s thighs, he groans. “Ah, you can’t be horny still.”

“I went weeks without you, what do you expect? I want you,” he drawls and brings his mouth back to Harry’s.

Harry pulls Zayn’s sneaky hand away and places it on his chest. “I told you, I’m spent. Give me a few hours at the least. You made me cum three times.”

“And I only came once. I’m the typical woman in this relationship, huh?” Zayn quirks his brow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Harry.” He laughs. “Just make sure you never leave me hanging dry.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.”

It’s the little things that make this moment so perfect, like the way Zayn brushes his feet against Harry’s and wriggles his toes; or the way he slips a thigh over the bareness of Harry’s thighs and cuddles himself into the hold; or the way they can’t go five minutes without telling each other they love one another because they have a lot of time and a lot of love to make up for.

“I was thinking,” Harry begins, his own toes wriggling at the thought, “maybe next time I could, you know…”  

Zayn looks up to him curiously. “No, I don’t.”

“You know, maybe next time I could let you fuck me,” he says, and he doesn’t know why but he’s nervous. “Just because, I mean, you’re the only one that’s done it and whilst that’s amazing I’d like to… I’d like to try it, too. See how it feels, and the change might be fun, for you as well as me.”

“Harry, you’re rambling.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sighs, embarrassed.

Zayn takes Harry’s cheek and turns him so their eyes meet. He has this loving smile on his face that calms Harry’s heart, lets him know there’s no judgment here.

“If you would like that, I would be more than willing to fuck you,” Zayn says.

“You would? It’s not _strange_ or anything that I would want you to do that?”

“Of course not. It’s very, very pleasurable. I mean, have you heard me during sex? It’s like heaven, if heaven was sinful.”

Harry gives him an unsure smile. “Does it hurt?”

“If it’s your first time, yes.”

“You’re my first.”

“That’s even better, then,” he whispers and leans down to kiss him. “Baby, I could rock your world, just the way you do me.”

“It’s that good? I’ve been missing out on that much?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s a whole world of pleasure you’ve never experienced just sitting between your thighs.”

“You’ll definitely have to show me.”

“I will.” He bites at Harry’s jaw. “Versatility is so sexy. To be dominant but also submissive, to be both sides of the paper…” He groans and rolls his eyes back in this way that makes Harry’s cock twitch and win him over. “Fuck, it doesn’t get any better. I could show you now what’s it’s like.”

“No,” he says, laughing. “No, not now. In the future, if you’re still here.”

“Of course I’ll still be here, where else would I go?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe one day you find that I’m not enough for you and you can’t get over what I’ve done and you leave me.”

Zayn sits up and climbs back on top of him, his thighs on each side of Harry’s waist. He looks down to him. “I’m here with you right now. I’m not going anywhere. If I didn’t want to come back with you I wouldn’t have."  

“But you might change your mind—”

“I won’t. Harry, I won’t change my mind. You’ve hurt me, but everyone else that’s ever been in my life has hurt me, too, and you are the only one who ever raised your hands and admitted you were wrong and _proved_ to me how sorry they were. And on top of that, you are the _only_ _one_ who has ever loved me, the only man who has ever treated me the right way.”

“I only treat you how I think you should be treated.”

“And that’s worshipping me, huh?”

Harry cheekily grins. “Yes. I’d bow down and kiss your feet if you asked me to.”

“You see? How could I leave that forever? How could I go about my life knowing there’s a man walking around who would willingly kiss my feet without objection, and I wasn’t in his arms?”

“I suppose that would be rather difficult.”

“It would be.” He laughs and leans down to take Harry’s lips in his. “Angel, there is no one else for me. No one could make me feel as good or as loved as you do. There’s nowhere better for me to go, nowhere that is better than right here, in your arms. I’m not leaving you, I promise.”

“There’s still a bunch of work to do,” Harry says.

“A lot of work to do,” he agrees. “Starting with the house, and then us and where we’ll go from here. But we’ll do it together, okay?”

Harry frown simmers down into an arduous grin. “Okay.”

“Good. I love you.”

“I love you, too. You’re so incredible. Look at you, being so sure of yourself and confident,” Harry praises.

“It’s a funny, little thing called love,” he says. “Does strange and wonderful things to people.”

“Things like this.” Harry taps Zayn’s cock that’s still hard and ready, before taking it into his grasp. “So in love that you cock can’t keep still, huh?”

“It’s what you do,” Zayn mumbles, “what you do to me.”

“Come here,” Harry says, shifting so he sits slightly further up, and pulls Zayn’s thighs up to his chest. He kisses the end of Zayn’s cock and watches with wide eyes as it twitches under his touch.

“I thought you said you were spent,” Zayn croaks.

“I am, but I can’t just let you go to waste like this, can I?” he says, wild eyes glinting as they look up to Zayn’s whose mouth is parted and staring down in awe.

“Fuck, Harry,” he gasps as Harry takes him into his mouth. “I love you so much.”

Harry moans around his cock and feels it jolt as it takes into the back of his throat, swirling and massaging. He lifts Zayn up so he’s knelt on either side of him, so Harry can move a hand between Zayn’s thighs and slip a finger into his arse, lubricating himself on the excess Vaseline along Zayn’s cheeks as he goes, to maximise the pleasure. 

And he reaches close to the end not long after, not being able to resist the satisfaction of Harry’s mouth and fingers at the same time. He lets Zayn thrust into his mouth, his throat, and he gags straight over him, the vibrations of his sounds making him release right into Harry’s throat.

Harry makes it a rule, right there in his mind, that he’ll let Zayn fuck his mouth like this whenever he wants, _whenever the fuck he wants,_ because he’s a greedy man and Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this; of seeing Zayn that way above him, in such divine pleasure and connecting with him, so they’re one.

And he doesn’t break the rule. He lets Zayn take his mouth every day, anytime he wants: even when it’s in the middle of dinner and Zayn has to continue to stir the food whilst Harry sucks him off so it doesn’t burn; or when they’re out at dinner and Harry’s small touches arouse him and they slip into the bathroom stalls inconspicuously and he drops to his knees for him, fucking him against the sinks for good measure while the door is unlocked, because Zayn says it makes it all the more dangerous and pleasurable knowing someone could walk in on them at any moment; or even when Zayn visits him at work and travels all the way over the city just so he can drop to his own knees to show Harry how much he loves him, and Harry locks his office door and takes him on his desk or up his ceiling-to-floor windows because they’re so high up that no one even cares to see what they’re doing.

But as Harry lays in bed—a year after they painted the walls a deep teal and decorated the room with golds and blues and yellow’s, and replaced the furniture around the house with sturdier wood (so they could fuck on any of it without it splintering) and laid down new carpet, and got a newer, stronger bed because the springs couldn’t keep up with all their bounces and thrusts and moans—he realises that they haven’t really touched each other in days.

It makes him frown over the edge of his book, his glasses lowering on the bridge of his nose. It’s been a few days since they did anything other than kiss and grasp little pieces of one another here and there.

Harry thinks maybe it’s because he’s been so busy at work, so lost in his mind with his own writing and the business deal he’s trying to land with Tarol that he’s perhaps abandoned Zayn in small ways that he’s realising mean so much to him.

Zayn has seemed off, too, he notes as he pulls away and skims his mind over the past week or so. He’s seemed more tempted to squirm from long touches and shy away when Harry caresses him too low.

 _Perhaps he’s got another lover on the other side of town, pouring drinks and waiting drunks_ , Harry thinks ironically, but he knows it’s not true.

If he’s learnt one thing that sticks with him, out of the thousands he’s discovered, is that Zayn is loyal, and he takes loyalty very seriously, which Harry always teases him about because if it weren’t for Harry’s initial disregard of that exact thing, they never would have met.

“Zayn, darling, are you almost done?” he calls out into the hallway as he sits in bed. “You do take the longest showers. I might have to put a ti—”

He pauses as he looks up to see Zayn stood in the doorway, and his mouth parts at the sight. He’s bare-skinned, with only the fine silk of a gown covering from low chest to high thigh. His bulge protruding steadily, with the thin material showing the lines of his head as his hard cock rubs against the gown. 

Harry takes off his glasses and shuts his book, pushing it to the side. He feels the rush of arousal down to his groin just at the sight of Zayn, at the thoughts of what he could do to him rushing through his mind, leaning so nonchalantly against the doorframe, looking so innocent, and yet making Harry’s cock move underneath the duvet. 

“Where did you get that?” he asks in a short breath. 

“I bought it in the week.” Zayn bites his lip. “Do you like it?”

Harry robotically nods, eyes wide, brows high. “Very much.” 

“I thought you might,” he says and slowly walks towards Harry, swaying his hips as he goes. 

“I’ll just warn you now,” Harry begins, his eyes unable to move from Zayn’s hips, his cock, “I hope you bought more of these, because this one won’t remain in one piece for long. 

“Well, that depends.” 

“On?” 

“If you want it to be a new thing.” Zayn kisses Harry’s cheeks as he pulls back the covers and folds his legs over Harry’s lap to sit down. “If you like it.” 

“Oh, I think I do. I think my cock does, too,” he says, smirking, and brings his lips down to Zayn’s exposed chest. 

He giggles. “You think it suits me?” 

“I do. Especially this colour. White is so perfect for you,” he says, pulling the straps down Zayn’s shoulders. “But I think being naked suits you best.” 

“Well”— He cuts himself off with a moan as Harry circles his nipples with his tongue — “I suppose, you better take this off me, then.” 

“I plan to,” Harry whispers against his skin. “But I want you to dance for me first.”

“Dance?” he asks. “There’s no music.”

“Then we’ll make it.”

With this devilish glint in his eye, Zayn begins to roll his hips. He denies Harry kisses as he reaches up, leaning back so his palms balance on Harry’s knees. Harry holds his waist and meets the swing of his hips in anti-clockwise circles. Zayn rolls his head black in moans as Harry places kisses on his chest over the thin fabric of the gown.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Harry whispers in this carnal growl that makes Zayn whine. “So sexy, all dressed up for me like this. And you’re all mine.”

“It’s only for you,” Zayn says. He sits back up and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, and Harry brings his lips straight down to his collarbones. “I’m only yours.”

“I was beginning to think there was something wrong,” he admits.

Harry pulls back the tight fabric over Zayn’s crotch, pushing the gown up his thighs, to let his cock springs loose, and he doesn’t wait to take it into his hand and pump.

Zayn gasps. “Why?”

“You haven’t touched me in days.”

“You were busy with work, I didn’t want to interrupt you,” he tells, pushing his hips forward so their cocks grind. “I know how important this deal is to you.”

“I know, baby,” he says in a moan. _His thoughtful man_. “But I’ll always have time for you. Always. You’re the most important thing to me, nothing comes in front of you. Nothing." 

“Harry,” he whines. “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” he says, pushing Zayn’s hips down harder on to his. “Part of me thought you’d found someone else, someone who deserves you more.”

“You’re fucking crazy, Harry. You know,” he pauses to moan as Harry bites down on his neck, “you know I wouldn’t. You’re my only.”

“Oh, baby, I know. I’m just a paranoid fucking fool, you know how stress gets me.”

Zayn hums. “I know. _God_ , Harry, you’re my fool. You’re my goddamn fool. Always.”

“Don’t say always,” he breathlessly protests. “You know what that means, you know what it implies.”

He shifts the gown over Zayn’s arms, peeling it off his body and exposing the loveliness of his skin. Harry leans over to grab the lubricant from the bedside table and swipes it over both of their thighs, their cocks, their chests as the excess swipes all over Zayn’s skin by Harry’s greedy hands.

“What do you want to do?” he asks. “You want to go underneath or above?”

“I don’t care as long as you’re fucking me,” Zayn impatiently says, grinding their hips harder.

“You want me to go tonight?”

“Yes.”

Harry grabs him securely around the waist and flips them around, so Zayn is soaked in the sheets and he’s staring up at Harry in this adoring way that Harry never gets tired of.

Zayn smirks. “I thought you were going to rip the gown off me.”

“Well, I didn’t know if that was the only one, and I didn’t want to ruin it. What will you wear tomorrow, otherwise?”

“I have more. I bought a red one.”

Harry bites his lip. “Red?”

“Ruby red.”

“Why didn’t you wear that one?” He groans.

“I didn’t know if you were going to like me in a gown, didn’t know whether you’d shun me. I wasn’t going to pull out the big guns straight away, was I?”

“I wouldn’t ever shun you, you should know that. I’ll accept you no matter what. I love you too much to disregard you.”

“I know, Harry.” He brings Harry’s lips to his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Perhaps we could keep the red one for special occasions.”

“When I’m in bed with you, it’s always a special occasion.”

“Christmas is next month, maybe I’ll pull it out then.”

“Oh, how seasonal. Maybe I’ll get a matching green one.”

Zayn laughs. “I thought I was the woman in this relationship.”

Harry looks him in the eyes. “I thought we were a versatile couple.”

He smiles, stroking Harry’s cheek. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “we are.”

“Good. Green is really my colour.”

“Red would complement your eyes better.”

“You’re right. I’ll get a red one.”

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you, Zayn,” he says, and eases in to him slowly. They both gasp.

“Oh, that never gets old,” Harry says, moaning.

“Fuck, Harry.” Zayn bites back a moan. “You know, I didn’t object the idea.”

“What?”

“Of marriage. I know what always means.”

“I know you do.”

“I think we’re already living in always, don’t you?” he asks.

 _This man_ , Harry thinks with a groan. He wants to have this conversation now? When Harry is shifting in and out of him and suckling any skin he can get his lips on, like he’s starving and Zayn replenishes him. But he can’t deny the way his heart picks up, and it isn’t the clenching walls wrapped around his cock that send jolts of warm pleasure into his groin that’s making it race.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Harry hits deep and makes Zayn’s head push back into the pillows. “Fuck—Yes, Harry, I— _Fuck_ , yes. I am.”

“I’ve had the ring hiding underneath the pillow for months,” Harry says, panting.

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s gorgeous, so gorgeous.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he says, his shoulders feeling lighter although they’re tense, straining to hold his weight as he thrusts into Zayn. “I’ve been so worried you wouldn’t like it.” 

“I love it. And I love you, Harry,” he confesses in such ardour that Harry almost cums right there. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, my—is it appropriate to call you my fiancé?”

“No, not yet.”

“Fuck it, you’re my fiancé.”

“Harry,” he playfully scorns, but his disapproval is lost between moans and pants of pleasure in seconds.

“Are you taking my name?”

Zayn groans. “We’ve been over this.”

“We’ll discuss it on the way to Las Vegas.”

Zayn looks up to him, eyes wide. “Las Vegas?”

“I know a man.”

“Does he sell horses?”

Harry pauses as this loud laugh racks through him, shakes his chest and he falls on to his elbows to hold himself. When he calms, he looks up to Zayn, who waits looking amused and confused.

“What?”

“I’ve told you, baby, it’s just an expression,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye as he giggles.

“Oh. Yeah, right,” he says, chuckling shortly. “But I don’t understand why we have to go to Las Vegas.”

“For the wedding.”

“Oh.”

“We can’t get married here, it’s not—no one would do it. They wouldn’t agree with that type of thing. But I spoke to a man down in Las Vegas last year, when we sorted everything out. He’ll marry us, discreetly.”

Zayn smiles bittersweet. “I hate that it has to be a secret.”

“I know, darling. But, if you think about it, we haven’t got many people to tell, have we?”

“No, you’re right.”

“I know I am.” He smiles and kisses Zayn, sliding his hand back down to Zayn’s cock and squeezing, which brings that lustrous look back on to his face. “Now, can we continue? I’m hard and it hurts being inside of you and not moving.”

“You don’t have to ask me, Angel.” He slides his hands into Harry’s hair and wraps his legs around his waist. “Fuck me all night if you want.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He groans and begins to move again.

“I always do.”

“I love you, Zayn,” he says, before adding, “my beautiful fiancé.”

Zayn giggles. “I love you, Harry. Always.”

Harry picks up the pace, so the legs of the bed squeak as they slide against the floor, and the floorboards creak below them, and the headboard wails, and the walls sigh along with them in passion and all-consuming, irrevocable love.

And just before Zayn hits that peak, where his legs start to shake and he loses his voice to moans of high-pitched pleasure, Harry slips a delicate, 30 karat diamond embellished, silver band on to Zayn’s ring finger, and unlike before, Zayn doesn’t object. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my vocabulary is completely broken, so I hope my distress was worth it and everyone who has read until now enjoyed every moment of it. Thank you for reading and for all the support I've been shown! I'm so, so grateful.
> 
>  


End file.
